


A Man of Honour

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: East End Boy 'Verse, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Greg Lestrade in Armour, Happy Ending, Historical Romance, Historical Shenanigans, M/M, Married mystrade, Medieval AU, Medieval Mystrade, Power Dynamics, Sir Gregory Lestrade, Story within a Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-16 04:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11821560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: To Sir Gregory Lestrade, commander in the rebel army, fortune could perhaps have been kinder. When his forces are decimated on the battlefield, Gregory finds himself fallen into the hands of an enemy Marquess - a man whose sharp mind, imperious disdain and impenetrable castle walls are legendary.But the Marquess has a proposal to restore Sir Gregory to grace. All he needs to do is make a choice.His life - and the lives of his men - or his honour?[Story within a story: modern married Mystrade (East End Boy 'verse)  with medieval AU]





	1. A Thousand Lives

**Author's Note:**

> Though this story acts as a sequel to _East End Boy_ , it also happily stands alone - 'Established Relationship' is all you need to know. My thanks go to Avid, who did a magnificent job beta-reading. <3

It was a dead easy drive to Yorkshire - hardly any traffic on the motorway, and the car full of warm September sunshine. They chatted every minute of it, flirting and laughing like only newly-weds could, as Greg's eighties' power ballads thundered cheerfully from the stereo. It was one of the best drives Greg could remember - and there'd been more than a few of them by now.

He had a feeling it would be a brilliant weekend.

Just getting out of London was a fantastic start.

They arrived a little after lunch: a tiny market town, a hotel that was cosy and quiet, staff that had no clue who they were. They checked into their suite for the next three nights under the proud names of Mycroft and Gregory Holmes - just a professional couple from London, up for a wedding and a weekend break.

Even after four months of marriage, hearing Mycroft announce them that way still sent a thrill up Greg's back. He smiled to himself as Myke signed the check-in sheet, admiring the band of white gold at the base of his husband's finger.

He was happy just to be with Myke - holding doors for him, carrying bags up to their suite, kissing him at every chance. Being away was reminding Greg of their honeymoon. It made him feel romantic and sunlit and proud, and they'd only just arrived.

They unpacked the bags, freshened up, and in a spirit of holiday adventure, decided to explore.

It was a pretty town, set on the slope of a hillside, and overlooked by a medieval castle. The little streets were lined with gift shops, art galleries, and cafés with homemade cakes and heart-shaped chalkboards in the window. Every shop sold postcards of the town's numerous beautiful sights. Greg bought ten, suspecting he would need more.

They found their way at last to a cobbled square with a fountain, where they sat with a growing collection of coffee cups and watched the world go by, playing with each other's fingers on the tabletop. Greg started writing postcards with a borrowed pen from Myke.

_Dear Sarah, hello from North Yorkshire! Uncle Myke and I are having a great time... we hope you're all okay back at home..._

The sun on the table warmed his hands as he wrote. August had been sweltering - barely able to sleep some nights, Mycroft burning alive in his suits everyday, eating ice just to stay cool - but its oppressive heat had softened into an absolutely gorgeous September. It would be Christmas before they knew it, Greg thought. _First married Christmas_. He was going to spoil Myke to hell. This place was amazing - it was making him happy just to be alive.

He only hoped it was this beautiful tomorrow.

It felt like the whole world was excited for Sophie and Yuri. They'd asked Mycroft to be part of the ceremony - he was the one who'd first coaxed them together, after all: his tireless assistant and his titanic Russian bodyguard. Tomorrow was their wedding day.

Greg suspected it was going to be emotional.

"I think I'd rather gladly spend my life like this," Mycroft murmured, stretching a little in his café chair. He reached for the last of his coffee with a sigh. "Weekends away… cobbled squares in the sunshine..."

Greg looked up from his postcard to Sally, grinning.

"We should get away more often," he said. "See some more of this country you work so hard to run… there's plenty of it."

"Hardly running it," Mycroft said, bemused. "Not these days, anyway."

"Not necessarily a bad thing," said Greg. "I'm glad you're getting better at delegating… means you and me get to spend more time like this. And it's good practice for retirement."

Mycroft eyed him fondly over the top of his mirrored sunglasses.

"We should go to Bath," he said, leaning back in his chair. He breathed the sunshine into his lungs. "Have you been?"

"Don't think so, no. It's posh, isn't it?"

"It's very pleasant. Originally a Georgian spa..." Mycroft yawned, crossing one leg over the other. "Well, originally a _Roman_ spa… the ancient baths are really rather impressive. Remarkable to think that emperors might have bathed in those very pools."

"Remind me... Romans...  _before_ Saxons - but _after_ the Vikings...?" Greg's nephew had done a project.

"Before both," Mycroft corrected, with a small smile. "Two thousand years ago, for the original conquest... the Vikings only arrived onto Lindisfarne eight hundred years later. They hit the monastery there - took slaves, property, and left."

"Ha. Shows what I know..." Greg signed his Sally's postcard with a scratch, and peeled a stamp off the sheet. "I had chicken pox the week we did History."

He applied the stamp, tongue stuck out, then bundled all the postcards together with a shuffle.

He found Mycroft watching him with an irresistible smile across the table.

"What?" he said, grinning.

Mycroft reached for his hand.

"Let us amend your education," he said. "The castle - over there, on the hill. It's open to the public. We could visit."

"Play tourist, you mean?" Greg thought about it. _Why the hell not?_ It was a beautiful day, and he was married to Mycroft Holmes _._ The whole world was theirs. "Sure," he said. "So long as you won't set me an exam at the end."

Mycroft stood up, smiling. He took his husband's hand.

"There'll be dinner at the end," he said, "and then a comfortable hotel bed. We should have a couple of hours to look around."

It was a spectacular structure to approach - but then, Greg thought, these things were built to be impressive. They were the architectural equivalent of telling someone to piss off. _'Spectacular'_ was probably item one on the castle builder's list of requirements, _'lockable gate'_ being the second. He gazed up at the massive entrance as they passed beneath it, feeling pleased and slightly silly to be a tourist for once. London born and bred, Greg thought tourists were those people who got in the way when you were just trying to nip out and buy a sandwich.

He could see why they did it, though.

It was exciting just to see something new.

They paid entrance, bought a guidebook - not that Mycroft turned out to need the thing - and began to look around.

They roamed the dimly-lit stone chambers together, admiring the nine-hundred-year-old walls that stood around them. Much of Mycroft's historical commentary went over Greg's head, but it was fascinating to see - and bloody impressive.

As they climbed higher through the castle, spiralling their way up drafty stone staircases, he found himself imagining the people who'd lived here. It was strange to think each room had been so different once - roaring fires, tapestries and hunting dogs, servants carrying skewers of meat, guards in armour, burning torches. If he tried hard, he could almost see their ghosts moving about the place. This had been their everyday world - as ordinary to them as their home back in London felt to Greg.

"Ah..." Mycroft said at last, consulting the map, as they stepped into a large octagonal chamber. "This is the lord's bedchamber."

Greg felt a distinct shiver run up his spine.

He would remember it for years to come.

"Really?" he said. He gazed at the vast timber beams over their heads. Nearly a thousand years old, stripped of all its furniture and trappings, and this was still a hell of a space. He could imagine an enormous bed, opulent hangings and hunting dogs asleep on a bearskin by the fire, as their lord sat nearby at a desk to read - his eyes tired in the candlelight. "This is... actually someone's room. That's crazy."

"Mm... he'd have run a great deal of his business from here. He'd have received visitors and dignitaries - a great honour to be admitted to his private chambers... did you see they were besieged for three years during the Civil War?"

"Three _years_? You mean, with an army camped outside the walls?"

"Mm. Remarkable, isn't it? Apparently a highly honourable surrender was eventually reached, and the occupants were permitted to leave in total safety."

Greg peered out of the narrow window across the valley, to the green forest and fields beyond.

"Which one was the Civil War?" he asked, adding: "Sorry. Hopeless at history."

Mycroft eyed him with amusement from beside the stone fireplace.

"That would be the English Civil War of 1642 to 1651. The rebel parliamentarians versus the Crown. Charles I was eventually captured and beheaded, and the monarchy abolished for some time."

"Jesus, Myke - spoiler alert!"

Mycroft grinned, examining the stone mantel of the fireplace with interest. "Astonishing, though. To imagine all the people this room has had within it... the history it has seen."

"Kinda inspiring, when you think about it." Greg smiled, idling up behind Mycroft in the otherwise empty chamber. He rested his chin on his partner's shoulder, looping his arms around his waist. "You'd have made a good medieval lord," he said.

Mycroft snorted, leaning back into his gentle hold. "I'd have been rather a tyrant, don't you think?"

"Exactly why you'd be good at it."

Mycroft smirked, his eyes bright. "Let's move on," he said. "I'd rather like to see the banqueting hall... then we should probably think about dinner ourselves. The bistro on the high street, do you think?"

 

* * *

 

That night in the hotel room, as Mycroft absorbed himself in a well-thumbed E. M. Forster novel, Greg took a look through the castle guidebook.

The dates and maps and lists of kings didn't mean that much to him. He just liked the idea of all those people from long ago. His nephew - Toby, now five and exploding with knowledge - was getting into all this stuff: castles and battles and knights in armour. Maybe it was worth a trip to the Tower of London one weekend.

Sally kept trying to get Greg into Game of Thrones.

After today, he was half-tempted to take up her offer to borrow the box-set. 

Not that Mycroft needed any more ideas about how to deal with his enemies.

Greg read until his eyes had fogged too much to focus. Wedding in the morning - big day. He was almost as happy for Yuri and Sophie as he'd been for himself and Myke.

He had a shower, brushed his teeth, and settled in bed while his husband showered. He was half-asleep by the time the bathroom door reopened. He listened hazily as Myke checked the door, turned out the overhead light and switched on the bedside lamp. Its fuzzy glow settled across Greg's closed eyelids.

This was a brilliant place, he thought - comfortable, quiet and safe. A sanctuary.

He had a feeling he was going to sleep well.

His husband's weight rocked the edge of the mattress beside him; a hand eased across his bare chest beneath the covers.

"Darling?" came the murmur.

It was a request.

Greg's answer was yes.

Mycroft shivered as Greg tipped him over onto his back. He lifted his chin to the warm mouth that began to investigate his neck - slow lips, a brush of stubble, the gentle stroking of a tongue that had adored him for almost half a decade. His hands flexed on Greg's shoulder blades; soft sounds of pleasure soon escaped his lips.

Greg wondered how many hotel beds had held witness to this now - how many white cotton sheets Myke had twisted in his desperate hands; how many mattresses he'd arched against as Greg nuzzled between his parted thighs; how many bedside lamps had illuminated Myke's tightening expression as gleaming wet fingers fucked him gently and slowly.

Every single time reminded Greg of the first time.

Another hotel, back in London - a Christmas tree bedecked in gold in the lobby, John Watson's damn mulled wine blotting out all his sense and reason. The king-size bed with its pristine white pillows had made his stomach twist inside out. He remembered Mycroft's hands unbuckling his belt for him, panic and desire boiling in his heart in equal measure as he realised he was about to have sex with another man - and he remembered the gentle tones in his ear, murmuring to him,  _"Don't fret... I'll take good care of you. Just relax."_

Mycroft had ridden him. He'd pinned Greg's wrists to those perfect white pillows, steadily rocking up and down, as Greg's brain kept up a panicked inner stream of _oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck_. By the end, it was an external stream too, gasped from his desperate mouth.

Emboldened by the rush of coming, he'd kissed his way down Mycroft's heaving chest - clumsily finished Myke with his mouth, making every movement up as he'd gone along - Mycroft's hands in his hair; the shivering groans caused by his inexpert enthusiasm; the dizzying, perfect feel of another man's cock thick in his mouth. At three in the morning, Mycroft's restless hands woke him up again. Sleepily they ground together, sharing their gasps, Mycroft's face twisting with pleasure beneath him. It was crazy and it was clumsy and it was _good_.

Two weeks later, a black car pulled up alongside him on the street.

The driver handed him a snowy white business card, as pristine as those pillows had been, and asked Greg if he'd mind getting in.

Greg had gotten in.

Years later, and he was Gregory Holmes; and Mycroft tipped his head back and moaned as his husband's cock moved inside him.

"Oh, God..." Mycroft's eyes slid out of focus and he swallowed, the colour flushing high in his cheeks. "God, I've just - _wanted..._   _all_ day..."

He gave a full-body shiver, gripping Greg's biceps tight. His wedding ring gleamed in the lamplight.

"Please," he gasped, biting his lip. His chest arched. "Please - make me come - "

Greg's pulse hammered in every inch of his body. He leant low to Mycroft's lips, catching them in a slow and languid kiss as he thrust. Mycroft stiffened, whimpering into his mouth. As they fucked, his arms wrapped around Greg's neck, fingers scrunching into his hair, and gently Greg eased Mycroft his tongue. They kissed him as they moved together - sheathing himself slowly over and over into that perfect heat.

Myke began to pant his name.

 _Four_ _months_ , Greg thought.

He hoped they were fucking in hotel beds for another forty years. He hoped Myke still begged him softly for more when they were old and grey.

He buried his face into his husband's neck as he came, groaning, driving himself deep into Myke's husband's body.

In only moments Myke arched up beneath him and called out, gripping him hard. His fingers dug into Greg's back; wet heat spattered between their chests.

They kissed as they came down, panting in the quiet. Tingles coursed through Greg's body for quite some time. He stroked Mycroft's hair, whispering love and softness against his cheek, and brought a warm flannel from the bathroom to clean up.

Mycroft's eyes glittered as Greg gently washed his chest. His face was still flushed, lip red where he'd bitten it.

"I love you," he whispered, stretching. His eyes closed with the sensation of the cloth upon his skin.

Greg's heart flared. "I love you, too."

Mycroft's lips curved in a smile. He was beautiful, Greg thought. He was amazing. "I'm keeping you up..." Mycroft murmured. "You need your sleep. You had a long drive."

"Keep me up," Greg said. He dropped the cloth out of bed. "Please. Every night."

Mycroft laughed. He reached up, brushing his fingertips gently over his husband's jaw. 

"I'd live a thousand lives with you, you know." His eyes shone in the lamplight. "It still wouldn't be enough, Greg."

Greg felt his heart tug. "Myke…" He smiled, overcome, gazing into those clever grey eyes he loved. "You mean it?"

"Of course." Mycroft cupped his face. "I'll never have my fill of you."

Greg's heart squeezed. "Marry me."

Mycroft's eyes flashed. "I'm... fairly sure I _did,_  darling. Rather recently, in fact..." As Greg kissed across his forehead, Mycroft bit down into his smile. "There was a marquee, if I recall... and you looked exquisite... and your sister cried her way through most of a tube of mascara."

"Marry me again," said Greg, grinning as his lover laughed beneath him.

"Are you quite certain? After all the chaos?"

"All worth it," said Greg. "All of it. Every time I get to call myself Greg Holmes, I want to burst. I'd marry you fifty thousand times if I could."

Mycroft smiled; he drew Greg down to kiss him.

At last Greg eased back gently, settled on his side, and Mycroft nestled into the warmth of his chest. Greg drew the covers up around his back, then reached out switch off the lamp.

"Goodnight," Mycroft whispered, as darkness settled around them. "Sweet dreams."

"You too, treacle. Sleep tight." He kissed Mycroft's forehead. "See you with the sunshine."

Within a few minutes Mycroft was asleep, breathing against Greg's collarbones.

Greg stroked his hair for a while, just enjoying the final minutes of a long and happy day - the drive in the sunshine; coffee in the square; trailing the castle corridors together.

 _A thousand lives_ , Mycroft had said. He was right. It wouldn't nearly be enough.

Sleep came deep and easy.

 

* * *

 

The bastards had been tracking them from the moment they'd fled the field.

They rode like Hell's fiends were on their tail for the entirety of the day, passing at last under cover of darkness into the vast forest that dominated the Marquis's holdings. The horses were broken; the men were exhausted. They couldn't cover another mile.

These woods were not safe.

The Marquis - like so many of the great lords - was a supporter of the Crown.

But they could go no further this night.

They made camp for the night amidst the safety of the trees, speaking only in tired murmurs. They treated the wounds they could with the supplies they had, and shared what little food was left around the fire.

As their commander considered the pale and tired faces that surrounded him, he found himself facing a cold and unforgiving truth.

All was lost.

His forces, once several thousand strong, had been sent to break the deadlock to the west - to clear passage for the larger rebel army.

He'd failed.

They'd been decimated. Over in hours. His supporters had been reduced to this straggling band of broken-hearted men - no more than thirty. They hadn't enough food to last the week's ride north to the stronghold.

Sir Gregory Lestrade was not a pessimistic man - but he was a pragmatic one.

It had been some time since he'd faced a situation quite so dire. Worse, his men knew the truth of things too. He could see it in their faces.

It would take a miracle to deliver them now.

"All of you," he said - as they grieved in desolate quiet beside the fire. He saw their faces lift to him, looking to their commander even now for strength. "For the sake of those lost... don't despair. While we have our lives, we have all that we need to endure. The cause prevails."

Their faces quietened, taking his words to heart.

"The rebel army marches south soon," he said. "We - may not have cleared its passage, but I have no doubt that providence will - "

An arrow whistled from between two trees.

It stuck the man beside Sir Gregory in the throat. The man scrabbled for it, gasping in shock. He was dead before his hands had even closed around the shaft. He lurched forwards into the fire, lifting a great puff of white ash and cinders as he fell.

Panic broke out. Men lunged for their weapons. Any that drew them were punctured with arrows before the steel was even in their hand. Gregory watched, horrified, as a further ten of his men were killed before his eyes.

" _Lay down your arms!_ " screamed a voice.

"Do as they say!" Gregory roared - he could not see any more of them slaughtered like pigs. He couldn't bear it. "Put down your weapons!"

His men dropped their swords - the thumping of metal into wet leaves.

Silence fell across the clearing.

As Gregory watched, cloaked figures emerged between the trees. The dark moss-green of their clothing had permitted them to slip within a few feet of the camp. Emblazoned on their chests was a sigil, embroidered in grey - a yew tree wreathed in thorns.

It was the crest of the Marquis: the lord of all these lands. The Marquis carried quite the reputation. He was said to be possessed of a fearsome and indomitable will, a keen intellect, and a heart as cold and sharp as the finest blade.

Gregory's final hopes sank into the pit of his chest.

"Identify yourselves," said one of the cloaked figures. Gregory couldn't even tell which one had spoken. A great number of their bows were trained directly upon him - the man to whom the rebels all instinctively turned their heads.

He drew a long breath.

"My name is Sir Gregory Lestrade," he said. "I am the eldest son of - "

"Hmm. What luck. We know who you are, Sir Gregory. A rebel and a traitor. Viscount Anderson's men have hunted you since you fled the field. He alerted our master that you passed into his forests... and now you are under his dominion."

Gregory steeled himself, unwilling to show fear in the face of his men.

"I wish to entreat with the Marquis," he said. "Your master and I are men of honour. We should speak as such."

The cloaked figures seemed to pass a look of bemusement amongst themselves.

"Lord Mycroft instructed us to take you alive at all cost, Sir Gregory. It seems he wishes to entreat with you, too."

The order was barked.

"Tie their hands! Take their weapons and the horses. The king's army is always in need of good steel. Ensure that Sir Gregory is well-bound. His reputation as a knight and a fighter precedes him. No tricks, Sir Gregory... if you value your life."

"I value my cause, sir, ahead of my life." Gregory bit the side of his tongue. "But I shan't resist. Do not harm any more of my people."

"How touching," said the leader of the scouts. "I shan't, Sir Gregory. I leave that pleasure to my lord."

It was a long and gruelling march to the Marquis's stronghold.

Two more rebels dropped from their arrow wounds along the way. Gregory watched in silent rage as they were cut down by the Marquis's soldiers, struck from the ropes that bound them to the others then dumped within the litter of autumn leaves like bags of bones.

By the time that the castle appeared on the horizon, his fortitude had reached the very depths of despair. The Marquis's ancestral home was a sprawling fortification of breathtaking size, dominating the hillside where it sat and the many miles of forest it overlooked. The small town that had grown in its shadow contained, no doubt, quite the safest people who had ever lived.

As they were led, bound and shamed, through the castle's main gate, shouts called out through the night.

"Wake his lordship! The scouts are returned!"

"Take the prisoners to the hall!"

They were marched by torchlight across an impressive stone courtyard, in whose space grew a yew tree several hundred years of age. The Marquis's sigil was carved above every door and every window, glaring with imperious disregard at the captured commander who passed beneath it. Gregory kept his eyes low, unnerved.

He had a feeling he would not leave this castle alive - or at least, not the same man who had entered it.

They were led into the Marquis's vast and empty banqueting hall, forced to their knees before an empty wooden throne, and told to stay silent as they awaited his lordship.

Beside Gregory, his second-in-command made an uneasy sound beneath her breath.

"Sir Gregory," she muttered. "The - Marquis's reputation - "

"I know of his reputation, Lady Donovan," Gregory intoned, his voice low. His hands were still bound behind his back, his weapons gone, and his spirits as dark as they'd ever been. "You think I'm not wholly aware of it in this moment?"

"Sorry, Sir Gregory. I just thought..."

"Yes, I know what you thought. Now hold your courage. Trust in your commander."

"Yes, sir," she said. She lifted her chin. "For the cause."

"For the cause," he muttered, as the towering double-doors of oak at the end of the room were hauled open. A figure appeared in the torchlight between them, flanked by armed guards.

The Marquis moved with the grace of the very noblest class - and the purpose of one who had been born to a destiny he believed he deserved. He was tall, pale and red-haired with a hawkish gaze, a short and well-kept beard, and an aristocratic brow. He was robed in richly-embroidered dark grey. The Marquis had been roused from his bed, Gregory realised. The hour must be later than he'd thought.

As the Marquis took his seat upon the dais, his full complement of guards stationed themselves around the outside of the room. Their armour clashed and clanked as they marched. The noise and the men soon surrounded the rebel band on all sides, closing them in.

It was a transparent show of force.

Sir Gregory could feel it working. His men shrank closer to each other behind him, afraid. Their eyes cast around the surrounding guards and all their swords. Many of their fearful glances flickered up to the dais, where, beside the Marquis himself, a glowering man of almost breathtaking height and bulk had come to guard his master. With the enormous steel pauldrons at his shoulders, it was a wonder he could fit through any door. His gigantic gloved hands were resting on the pommel of a bastard sword, whose blade was nearly the width of Sir Gregory's arm. That man alone could cut them all down without a grunt.

Two guards at the door crossed their weapons; the cold clash of steel heralded silence.

The Marquis brushed a hand beneath his eyes, stifling a yawn.

"Bring him forward," he drawled.

Beside him, the gigantic bodyguard stepped forth.

Gregory bit his tongue. He made no protest but lent no assistance as the man's hands closed upon him in a grip of iron, dragged him across the hall on his knees, and deposited him in a heap at the Marquis's feet. The guard then returned - without speaking - to his station at his master's side.

Sir Gregory pushed himself up from the ground, annoyed. Slowly he lifted his gaze to the man who now held him prisoner.

The Marquis looked back at him - sharp grey eyes, in an otherwise languid expression.

His auburn hair was still tousled from his pillows.

"Who are you?" the Marquis enquired. His voice carried throughout the hall with ease.

Sir Gregory held his stare. "I believe you know well who I am."

The Marquis huffed.

"You are Sir Gregory Lestrade... currently widely-hunted, for numerous acts of treason against the Crown." The Marquis sat back in his seat, surveying Gregory with cool and quiet interest. "Did I hear you were involved in a battle today, Sir Gregory...? How did that turn out for you?"

Gregory's jaw set. If he was going to die, better die a man of integrity than a coward mocked on his knees.

"I lost _hundreds_ of good men, sir. Men who fought and died bravely for a cause which - "

"I am not a _'sir'."_  The Marquis's eyes flared. "I am _'my_ _lord',_ and nothing less. This is my castle. These are my lands. The forest in which you attempted to take refuge is _my_ forest, and I was alerted to your presence there within minutes. I appreciate that you've had a trying day, Sir Gregory... but I'll ask you to remember your graces while in the presence of your betters. A little respect does wonders in assuaging my temper. I assure you."

Gregory glowered from the Marquis's feet, gritting his teeth. He said nothing.

"Where were you intending to go?" the Marquis asked, cold. "Once you'd completed your illegal passage through my forest."

Gregory continued to say nothing, his eyes hard.

" _Speak_ , Sir Gregory." The Marquis lifted his chin. "I'm not accustomed to asking a question twice."

Gregory flexed his wrists against his bonds, finding them as secure as ever. "As you know my name, _my lord..._ and you know the cause to which I have committed myself... then I imagine you can surmise where we intended to go."

The Marquis stroked the arm of his chair - pale fingers, set with rings.

"An obvious deduction. You were headed back to the rebel stronghold in the north, to rejoin your compatriots... and lick your wounds."

The Marquis tilted his head.

"Of which you have a number." His eyes trailed from the cut above Gregory's eye to the bruising across his knuckles, the torn side of his coat now ruined with blood and dirt. "Wounds, that is. In compatriots, you're rather more lacking."

"Such is the nature of battle." Gregory let his tone stay cold, gazing without fear into the man's wintry eyes. "Not all of us have castle walls to hide behind."

The Marquis raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

He leant back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. His underclothes probably cost more than most people's armour. Gregory wondered if the man had ever known a day's hardship in his life - if he'd ever bled, ever felt steel cut through his skin, ever laid in the dirt as the hooves of horses thundered all around.

"Then I recommend you avail yourself of some castle walls," the Marquis suggested. "I find them remarkably effective. I'll point out to you, sir, that of the two of us, _my_ war strategy seems to be working rather better... I am, after all, quite safe - while you are covered in filth and the blood of your men, kneeling at _my_ feet, in _my_ hall, with _my_ guards quite prepared to slaughter every last one of you at a single word from me. Before you spit suggestions of cowardice at me, Sir Gregory, perhaps ruminate on your own situation for a while. You are my prisoner. You are _beaten_. Your final few men now rely upon me for their very lives. Must I give you a more illustrative demonstration of that fact, or are you prepared to be respectful?"

Gregory bit his tongue, immediately dropping his eyes. He wouldn't risk his men. There were so few of them left - he had let so many down. He couldn't lose one more life. He couldn't bear it.

"Apologies, my lord."

The Marquis's eyes gleamed.

"Better." He began to toy with a sovereign ring slipped from his left hand, turning it slowly within his fingertips. His family crest, set in garnets, glittered in the torchlight as it turned. "Some would have divorced your head from your shoulders the second you entered their possession, Sir Gregory. Be appreciative, and you might even retain use of it a few more days."

"Have you informed the king of our capture?" Gregory asked.

The Marquis gave a soft snort, indicating with a light gesture his night clothes.

"I've only just been informed myself," he said. "I will alert the king in due course."

"What is the current price on my head?"

"How enchanting," the Marquis remarked, delighted. "You think I have need of a few pitiful gold coins."

He brushed a speck of dust from the arm of his chair.

"I have no idea of your bounty," he said, vaguely. "Enough to buy me an evening's wine, perhaps. Rest assured I will enjoy it intently. Have you anything else to say before I arrange your accommodation for the night?"

Gregory hesitated, running a thought around his mind. He decided to risk it.

"My lord, I - don't believe you've ever spoken to the rebel leaders."

"No," the Marquis intoned. He was toying with his ancestral ring again. "Your rebel friends have never breached my walls. I have this maddening tendency to shoot them whenever they get near. Congratulations on being the first."

"You have not... _officially_ declared for the king."

The Marquis stopped turning the ring; his eyebrow arched.

"The king is the _king_ , Sir Gregory. I do not have to _declare_ for him. To do so would suggest His Majesty somehow _needs_ my declaration to legitimise his crown."

"A king should be a king by right of proven leadership," Gregory said. "Not by right of blood. Lord Mycroft... as the first rebel commander to - "

"Forgive me, sir? I don't recall granting you permission to use my name."

Gregory dredged the very depths of his patience. " _My_ _lord_ ," he intoned, "as the first rebel commander to - "

The Marquis rolled his eyes.

"Take them to the dungeon," he sighed.

As one, the guards advanced.

Gregory's heart lurched.

"My apologies, Sir Gregory," the Marquis added, rising from his chair, as his guards grabbed hold of the panicking rebel soldiers. "I'm not known for my hospitality. You might find the room a little more crowded than you're used to."

He swept from the hall without another word, vanishing into the gloom of the stone passageway behind his seat. His titanic personal guard followed him at once. The oak doors were heaved shut behind them, and they were gone.

As the guards laid hands on him, dragging him up from the flags, Gregory hung his head. There was nothing to be done. He could only submit to his fate.

He was manhandled from the hall and taken swiftly to the very depths of the castle, with the sad remains of his forces in tow. A mould-infested stone cell awaited them, barely big enough for half their number. They were thrown into it, the great iron door was slammed and locked, and the torches were doused.

In the darkness, Gregory found them all. He drew them near, gripped their hands, and entreated them all to have courage - for the sake of the friends they had lost. Though few in number, they still had their lives. Many good people had ended this day with much less.

A long and miserable night began to pass.

 


	2. Vodka and Wine

When Sir Gregory awoke, it was to the surprising sight of the Marquis in a hotel dressing gown, placing a cup of coffee on the bedside table. Gregory stared at the cup, his head whirling.

Reality and the modern world returned with a lurch. They slammed into him so hard that it wiped out his senses. For a few seconds, Greg couldn't think. His mouth opened. He gazed up at Mycroft, wild-eyed.

 _"Wow..."_ he breathed.

Mycroft looked down with a slight smile, his hair still mussed after sleep. His body was bare beneath the dressing gown. "What's the matter?" 

Greg could barely put it into words. "I... had the _weirdest_ bloody dream..."

It had been so real. He could feel the dungeon flags beneath his back as he laid down on them to sleep - he could smell the mould, hear the distant clank of keys, feel his soldiers frightened around him in the darkness.

"Jesus Christ... that was -  _wow._ How much did I drink last night?"

"Not much," Mycroft said, amused. He sat on the edge of the bed beside his husband, running a gentle hand through his hair. "You had rather a lot of cheesecake, but it doesn't usually give you bad dreams… what did you dream about? Not - ..."

"Oh - no." Not _those_ dreams. Greg hadn't had one of those dreams in some time. "It wasn't a nightmare, it was just… so _vivid._  Jesus, I was really there. And you were..."

He looked up into Mycroft's face, spellbound.

He could see the Marquis sneering at him from the dais as he turned a sovereign ring around his finger. He could smell the torches, see the gleam of gold thread in the tapestries, hear the echoing of footsteps against stone. It was as real as the world around him.

"I was involved, was I?" Mycroft's eyes glittered. "Should I be concerned?"

"No," Greg managed. "No. Not at all." As Mycroft leant down, placing a kiss on his temple, the priorities of the real world suddenly popped into Greg's head. "Shit... the wedding. Have I slept in?"

"We've plenty of time," Mycroft murmured. "Don't worry. No need to rush."

He gazed at Greg's face with fascination.

"What did you dream about?"

Greg took a moment to put it into words. "It was... olden days." That didn't seem to do it justice. "There was a castle."

Mycroft was looking at him as if he were the loveliest thing in the world. "A castle?"

Greg felt his cheeks colour.

"It was fun, alright?" he said. "I don't remember my dreams that often... don't laugh at me."

Mycroft smiled, nudged the coffee cup nearer. "I'm not laughing at you," he said. "I'm intrigued - that's all. I've heard that dreaming of castles suggests the dreamer is feeling defensive, but... you don't seem that way."

"Not at all... happily married bliss, as ever." Greg smiled, gazing up at Myke from the pillow. "Just that 'first night in a hotel' thing, maybe?" He laid his hand at the small of Myke's back. "Remember our honeymoon?"

Mycroft's eyes shimmered. "Every moment of it."

"Didn't sleep that first night either."

"Nor the other thirteen, if I remember rightly..."

Greg smiled, stroking a quiet circle beneath Mycroft's dressing gown. "Myke..." he said.

His husband's eyes ignited. "Beast. We have somewhere to be."

Greg shifted. "You said there was plenty of time."

"For showers, dressing and breakfast, yes... unless you're suggesting we replace one of those fairly vital stages?"

 

* * *

 

They pulled into a petrol station on the way to Crathorne Hall. Mycroft - the most singularly elegant and well-dressed man ever to breeze through the doors - emerged after a minute with an assorted pack of sandwiches, four toffee muffins and a sad attempt at a fruit salad. He came back across the forecourt, gorgeous in the morning light and smirking at Greg through the front window.

"Do not give me that look," he said, as he slid into the passenger seat and shut the door.

"What look?"

"Your mischievous look. We're terribly late. And this is not going to do my waistline any kindness."

"How much damage can a muffin or two do? Besides... special occasion." Greg pulled open the pack of sandwiches, looking through for anything not drowned in mayonnaise. "Also, for the record? Not sorry."

"I have to walk someone down the aisle of a church today," Mycroft said. "I have to stand next to a vicar. What you did to me this morning was devilish."

 _Throw me in your dungeons,_ Greg thought, _until I learn some respect_... it had been a hell of a morning already. Only part of it spent in this world. The dream was just as vivid now as it had been hours ago - details kept coming back to him, rich and exciting.

And now toffee muffins for breakfast.

Greg wondered if life could get any better.

"Don't get anything on your shirt," Mycroft murmured to him, soft. He leant across to kiss Greg's cheek. "I don't want you to look like a scruff."

"Next to you, I'm always going to look like a scruff. You're gorgeous. You look like you stepped out of a fairytale." Greg licked a little mayonnaise off his fingers. "Like a marquis or something."

Mycroft gave him an amused glance, peeling the plastic lid off the fruit salad.

"A marquis?" he said. "That's oddly specific. And you mean a 'marquess', I assume."

Greg hesitated. "Is there... a difference?"

"'Marquis' is French. In the UK, it's more correctly 'marquess'... though I suppose both are used."

"They're... both nobility though, aren't they?"

"Mm. Ranking just below a duke - traditionally in control of a border region." Mycroft eyed him over his first forkful of fruit salad, smiling. "This is a curious thing for you to enquire about. You're not usually interested in the peerage."

"Well," said Greg, with a flash of his eyes. "I guess I'm full of surprises today."

Mycroft's eyebrow arched. He looked so elegant and clean, Greg thought - his pale grey and lavender tailoring, the pristine white shirt, not a hair out of place - and within that flawless countenance, the playful grey eyes that last night had regarded Greg from a high throne - and this morning, had widened at him with shocked lust and need.

"We should have more weekends away," Mycroft commented, retrieving a grape from his salad as he gazed at Greg. He ate it slowly. "It seems to be rather inspiring you."

"Isn't it just?" said Greg.

 

* * *

 

It was a gorgeous wedding.

Greg had to discreetly cover his eyes three times - the first, as the church doors opened and Sophie appeared, radiant as an angel on Mycroft's arm; the second as Mycroft handed her gently to her new husband at the altar. Greg was alright until he realised Yuri's eyes were filling with tears, at which point most of the church lost it too. Even the vicar was affected by the sight of the six-foot-five Russian security guard, moved to tears by his bride on their wedding day.

Mycroft stood back to watch them, proud and quiet.

Greg caught his eye along the aisle.

" _I love you_ ," he shaped with his mouth.

Mycroft's small smile was as wonderful as the sun on the stained glass behind them. _"I love you, too."_

The third round of tears came that evening at the Reception, surrounded by friends and family as the couple took to the floor for their first dance. They'd been practising for weeks. They both lived in, so Greg kept stumbling across them: in the kitchen mid-morning, or in the dining room after dark; out in the garden as the sun went down - stealing a few quiet minutes for Sophie to walk her fearful giant gently through his steps.

As they watched Sophie and Yuri dance, moving with grace for the first time as man and wife, Greg's hand stole into Mycroft's.

"Sophie's dad..." he said.

He hadn't asked until now. It hadn't seemed right to pry.

"My MI5 handler." Mycroft rubbed Greg's palm with his thumb. "Twenty years ago. We were - sent into hostile territory together. Only I returned. Sophie was barely fifteen at the time. I... rather lost my stomach for fieldwork after that. Retreated behind a desk."

Greg felt his heart fall, growing cold. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm - far too hard on her." Mycroft watched Sophie turn with perfect serenity in her husband's arms, the gossamer hem of her gown swirling around her ankles like a swept cloud of snowflakes. The entire room heaved a sigh. "I still feel guilty," Mycroft confessed. "It's - so much easier to snap at her than to tell her."

Greg laid his head on Mycroft's shoulder.

"Don't feel guilty. She's happy now... no matter what came before. That's an amazing place to be. Believe me."

Mycroft smiled at him sideways. On the floor, Yuri gave a little stumble. Sophie's face lit up with love and reassurance, kissing him softly as she coaxed him back into the steps.

Everyone reached for tissues.

Greg discreetly covered his eyes.

As their first dance ended, the room broke into applause. Greg got to his feet, whistling across the cheers. The band struck up a genial foxtrot.

As people began to dance, Sophie came hurried them through the crowd. Radiant, she reached for her employer's hands.

"You don't mind, Inspector Holmes?" she asked, with a flash of her round hazel eyes.

It took Greg a moment to remember that was him.

"Oh - God, no! Go on!" He grinned as Mycroft got to his feet. "You don't have to ask. I'll grab Yuri later for the macarena. Go have fun."

Beaming, Sophie led Mycroft to the dance floor. Heads turned to watch them pass. He took her expertly within his arms and they danced, not a footstep out of place, talking happily as they did. Whatever Mycroft was saying, it was making Sophie glow - her eyes shone as she gazed up at him. He looked back at her, proud, sharing some joke that made her ring with laughter. Greg found himself enchanted.

He hoped he could dance with his nieces like that one day. He'd have to start practising.

As someone pulled out Mycroft's vacant chair, Greg looked up with a smile. Yuri sat down beside him; the chair emitting a nervous squeak under his enormous stature.

He handed Greg a tiny glass. The liquid inside was perfectly clear.

" _Za lyubov,_ Mr Holmes."

Greg grinned. _That's me._ "Cheers." They drank - the stuff had all the potency of lighter fluid. Greg coughed and thumped his chest, half-expecting to breathe out flames as he spoke. "Christ alive, Yuri! I won't even ask what this is..."

"It is the best, Mr Holmes. For my wedding day." Yuri gazed across the dance floor, watching soft-eyed as Mycroft extended Sophie to arm's length for a twirl. Greg had never seen the new Mrs Volkova laugh as much as he had today. "I am a very lucky man," her husband remarked, dazed.

Greg grinned from ear-to-ear.

"You and me both, mate." He cast his eyes sideways at Yuri. "Call me Greg, will you? 'Mr Holmes' is gonna get confusing... 'specially now there's two of us. I know you're on the payroll, but - you're family, Yuri. God knows we've been through enough together."

Yuri smiled, refilling his vodka glass.

"You are very kind, Greg." He topped up Greg's glass with a chink. "And Mr Holmes has always been very good to me. To my wife. I am glad you are here for this day."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Greg said. He took the tiny glass. "I had a dream about you last night."

"About me?"

"Yeah. I had too much cheesecake."

"I hope it was a good dream," Yuri said, as he threw back the next shot. Greg braced himself and followed suit, feeling the stuff burn its way behind his eye sockets. He was glad Myke was driving them home. After this stuff, it would be a miracle if he even found his way to the fucking car.

"Ask me when I've had the next half," Greg said, smiling. "No - no more vodka for me, mate. I've got to teach you the macarena soon. I'll need my wits about me."

 

* * *

 

"And how many did you have in the end?" Mycroft asked, as he buckled Greg into the car.

Greg breathed in as he tried to boot up the numbers section of his brain. His focus wandered across the dashboard. He wasn't _that_ drunk, he told himself. Just sleepy. It made thinking a little hard.

"Six…?" he tried. That sounded about right. Those glasses were tiny. The difference between six and ten was little more than a mouthful. It didn't matter. "With a break for the macarena. Myke?" he mumbled, with sudden realisation. "Myke, I can't drive home like this. I'll crash us into a fuckin' hedge. Wouldn't be 'sponsible of me."

"That's why you're in the passenger seat," Mycroft said, gently. "Now sit there a moment. Try not to open your mouth too much. We only just had the upholstery cleaned."

He shut the car door with a clunk.

Greg sighed to the dashboard.

"M'a bit drunk," he told it.

The dashboard, unmoved, said nothing.

Mycroft opened the driver's side door, slid in beside Greg and buckled his seatbelt.

He looked so gorgeous in his suit.

All neat and proper. So many layers, but so fun to take off.  _U_ _nwrap them like a parcel. Mmhm._

"Where are we goin'?" Greg asked, confused, as Mycroft in his pretty suit started up the car.

"To the hotel," Mycroft said. He seemed to think something was funny.

"We're already _at_ a hotel," Greg said, squinting at him.

"We are going to _our_ hotel," Mycroft elaborated, as he turned on the radio and checked the wing mirrors.

Chumbawamba's _Tubthumping_ filled the car.

"Oh God!" Greg groaned. "I _love_ this song! Holy shit. This was like... thirty years ago... that's crazy they're still playing it..."

He turned to gaze out of the window as they pulled onto the road, mumbling along.

_"'I get knocked down... I get back up again... you ain't ever gonna keep me down...'"_

"I love you," Mycroft said beside him, smiling.

Within a mile, Greg was asleep.

At the other end of the journey, he was vaguely aware of Mycroft negotiating him from the car and up the stairs.

Mycroft then laid him on the bed, and started to undress him.

"No, Mycroft," he groaned. "No sex. M'very drunk."

"Oh, for - ... I'm not _seducing_ you, you utter beast. I'm trying to stop you sleeping in a three-piece suit."

"Sophie looked so nice in her dress..."

"Yes... yes, she did..."

"Yuri cried. It was really sweet." Greg heaved a faint sigh. "You're so beautiful when you dance. You know that? Could've watched you all night. M'so fucking lucky."

Mycroft leant across him to undo the buttons of his shirt, smiling widely.

"You are very, _very_ drunk..." he said.

"Nnh." Greg gazed up at him, blearily. "I love you."

"I know you do. Now hush, and let me get these trousers off... you're going to have a headache in the morning. I hope you realise that."

"Nah, m'be alright..." Greg sighed, lifting his hips and wriggling to help Mycroft pull off his trousers. "I'll jus' have a banana and a cheese sandwich... worked when I was twenny... be fine."

"Yes, but you were _twenty_ when you were twenty... that probably helped matters more than the banana and cheese sandwich."

"You'll see," Greg said, confidently. He gave a yawn, now naked atop the covers and quite content. He liked it here, he thought. This was a good place. He couldn't remember the name of it, but it was good. "M'tired, Myke," he muttered. "I might go to bed now."

"I see," said Mycroft. "That seems sensible."

"G'night, treacle... 'nkyou for getting me home safe."

"I was hardly going to leave you, was I?" Mycroft leant over the bed, kissing Greg gently on each cheek. "Good night, darling. Sweet dreams."

Greg reached up to try to kiss his lips - but Mycroft was gone too soon, too quick to catch. Greg groaned, his head hurting too much to lift it any distance. He waited for Mycroft to come back, but he didn't.

His neck was sore.

It ached from a long night on the hard ground. His thoughts were blurry, muddled up by discomfort and fear. All around him in the darkness of the Marquess's cell, his men were suffering just the same - crammed in like livestock, cold, still wearing the blood of their friends. It was hard to think of much but their present situation.

He doubted they'd managed a good hour's sleep between them.

They'd worked out a way for half to lie down and sleep while the other half stood, but it had done them little good. They were all afraid of the morning light. Gregory could feel it in the very air. An arrow wound in a clearing was quick and easy, compared to what an executed traitor might have to endure.

He was trying not to dwell on it. Such a death would be made no more bearable by mental rehearsal - and he had to stay strong, for the sake of his people if not for himself.

Beside him in the darkness, his second-in-command's voice came as soft as a shadow.

"Are you asleep, Gregory?" she asked.

"No, Donovan," he murmured. "I'm here."

"I can't be sure if it's night or day," she muttered. Her throat was dry from lack of water. "Does he mean to break our spirit?"

"What is there left to break?" he asked. "I don't see why he'd torment us. All we have are our lives... it seems the Marquess permits us to keep them for now. Why, I don't know."

There came the distant rattle and clang of an iron door, then footsteps in the direction of their cell. A moment later, torchlight washed across the bars. The torch's bearer peered inside, searching the crowd of desolate faces for one in particular.

She was an exquisitely-dressed young woman, her hair the colour of new-cut oak and softly curled about her face - like the maidens in tapestries. In the crook of her arm was a heavy book, which she consulted with care.

Beside her stood the Marquess's armour-clad personal bodyguard. Her diminutive frame only served to make him seem more gargantuan.

"Sir Gregory," she said, as she spotted him at last at the back of the cell. Her voice was educated and cool. "My master wishes to speak with you."

Gregory bit his tongue. "Seems futile to claim I'm busy," he said.

"Yes, Sir Gregory. So it would be. Will you come forwards, please?"

"My people are thirsty," Gregory said. "They need water and food. I shan't speak to your master until their needs are met."

"Forgive me, Sir Gregory. You're not in a position to make demands." She consulted the book in her arms with a frown, then added something with a quill drawn from her sleeve. "Though I will see to it your retinue are fed. If you'd care to come with me, please."

Weary, Gregory pulled himself up from the floor. He picked his way across the stone cell, careful not to tread on his people as he moved. His every muscle ached - his stomach was empty, and his throat felt as dry as fired clay. He had no wish to be further humiliated by the Marquess, but Lord Mycroft's whims seemed to be their only route out of this castle alive.

She unlocked the door of the cell as he approached, then stood back to allow him exit. The Marquess's guard stayed close at hand, holding her torch. Gregory wasn't stupid enough to make an attempt. He had no doubt the man could smash his head like a cheap pot if he wanted to.

The door was locked behind Gregory with a clatter. The young woman took her torch from the bodyguard, with a crisp, "Thank you, Yuri..." and led the way up through the castle.

"Who are you?" Gregory asked, as they passed through the cavernous banqueting hall. Darkness had settled beyond the windows - deepest blue streaked with pale gold, souring into black.

"I am his lordship's steward..." She read her enormous book as she walked, navigating steps and obstacles as easily as if they simply weren't there. "My name is Sophie. I help to manage his estate."

"You're... a lady."

"Observant of you. What gave me away?"

"Sorry. It's just unusual, that's all. I didn't realise Lord Mycroft was the sort to take a lady as his close advisor."

As Yuri heaved opened the enormous doors through which the Marquess had yesterday made his exit, Sophie pursed her lips.

"Your second-in-command is Lady Donovan... is she not?"

"Yes," he said. "For many years now - and a very good job she does."

"Then it seems you and my master are both 'the sort', Sir Gregory. Follow me please."

The corridor beyond was flanked by guards. They passed up a staircase, through a dayroom whose walls were dominated by books, and at last approached a heavy oak door carved with the Marquess's family crest. Sophie knocked.

A moment later, the door was opened.

The Marquess's bedchamber was an unsurprising study in opulence - rich hangings, tapestries and rugs; oak furnishings so aged that their deep brown wood had darkened to black; a vast fireplace brimming with flames. Their warmth was palpable even from the door. The room had a curious atmosphere of quiet, as if this space were wholly separate from the rest of the gloomy castle - as if it were located on some other plane of being, and in crossing the threshold Gregory had been transported there by magic.

Behind a painted screen, servants were preparing a bath. Steam rose from the surface; there were clean clothes draped across a nearby chair.

At a desk in the corner, the Marquess was composing a letter. He'd exchanged his dark grey nightwear for black breeches, leather boots, and a silk shirt of forest green. His open robes framed his shoulders, ankle-length and patterned in bronze and black. They only served to enhance his aristocratic stature - thighs honed by horse-riding.

Gregory did his best not to notice.

The Marquess looked up as the door opened. With a slight lift of his eyebrow, he laid aside his quill.

"Thank you, Sophie... all of you may leave."

The servants left in silence, including Sophie - and the guard. Yuri took the man's place, folding his arms across his chest.

"You as well, Yuri... I don't believe Sir Gregory intends me harm. Not when I have the entirety of his army in my dungeons."

Yuri inclined his head and left.

The door closed; they were left alone. Gregory became aware at once of the quiet. There was only the sleepy crackle of the flames, and the patter of rain upon the window.

The Marquess gestured to the bath.

Gregory frowned. He wasn't sure if it was an offer, a request or a command.

The Marquess visibly repressed a sigh.

"You are filthy," he said. "Your clothes are torn. You smell of horse. I'm aware that you're angry with me, Sir Gregory - but all I've done so far is my duty in apprehending a wanted man. I'm not going to hold discussions with you while you look like a forest brigand."

Gregory bit the inside of his cheek. He supposed, with all things considered, that much worse had been done to prisoners during the course of this war.

"Your steward promised food and water for my people," he said.

The Marquess arched an eyebrow. "And I have no doubt she's attending to that. Now - if you please."

Relenting, Gregory stepped behind the screen. He stripped off his clothing, grieving the ruin of his best leather armour, and heard the Marquess withdraw to his desk to continue writing. Undressed, Gregory lowered himself into the hot water.

He could not _enjoy_ this experience - not with the thought of his people penned into a cell like goats at the midsummer market - but he couldn't deny the hot water was welcome after a night on cold bare stone. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, allowing the heat to unknot some of his muscles. Quietly and quickly he bathed, scrubbing off the dirt and the blood with which the battlefield had painted him. He tried not to think of the Marquess writing at his desk, feet away through the screen.

"The clothing should fit you," the Marquess said, as Gregory lifted himself out of the bath with a slosh. Fire-warmed air stirred across his wet skin. "Do avail yourself."

Gregory dried himself, frowning, and reached with trepidation for the clothing: dark breeches; an undyed linen tunic that he suspected would be rather wide at his neck. It wasn't much. He never felt properly dressed without his leathers.

But then, he thought, the only other option was to put his torn and bloodied rags back on - and he wasn't doing that.

He dressed himself in the new clothes - the tunic was indeed too large. It showed far more of his neck and collarbones than he'd have liked. Oddly, the breeches were a touch too small. He pulled on his boots, not wanting to patter about the Marquess's rooms in his bare feet, then - as a purposeful touch - hung back around his neck the iron symbol worn by each rebel commander: a burning crown. The day he'd first draped it around the neck was the proudest of his life.

It rested plainly against his chest as he emerged from behind the screen.

The Marquess seemed to need a moment. His writing faltered - his eyes skipped over Gregory's general stature, catching at last on the pendant.

He frowned, but did not comment.

"Do sit," he said, rising from his desk. He picked up a pewter goblet and a slim pitcher of wine. "I imagine you've had a long night."

Gregory did not sit. "Thanks to you."

The Marquess placed the goblet in his hand.

"You still have a _head_ , thanks to me..." He filled the goblet with wine as he spoke. Its deep pink hue suggested a quality to which Gregory was not accustomed. "Be amenable. You might be a treacherous rebel... but it's no excuse for rudeness."

"Is being a prisoner an excuse for rudeness?"

"A _mistreated_ prisoner, perhaps."

"You have twenty of us in a single cell. That counts as mistreatment."

"When my forebears somehow rebuild this castle," the Marquess said, tartly, "three centuries ago, I'll be sure to request more luxurious lodgings for prisoners. I don't accommodate many criminals here, Sir Gregory. Perhaps it's your fault for surviving in such inconvenient numbers."

Gregory said nothing, his jaw tightening. A rebel, perhaps - a criminal, no.

The Marquess watched him with glittering eyes, unmoved by Gregory's anger.

"Drink," he ordered.

Gregory hesitated. A suspicion flickered through his mind.

The Marquess spotted it at once, and gave a sigh.

"For heaven's sake," he muttered, retrieved the goblet from Gregory and - with a pointed stare - took the first deep drink.

Gregory watched, saying nothing.

The Marquess's pupils dilated as he swallowed.

He handed the goblet back, licking wine from his lower lip.

"Why would I bathe you and then poison you?" he said. _"_ _Drink_. And do try to stop being so tedious."

Still uneasy, Gregory took a drink. His taste-buds informed him that the wine was exquisite; his heart refused to acknowledge it.

"Is it too much to hope that you'll sit down?" The Marquess took his own goblet from the desk, filling it rather generously with wine. "Unless I order you to stay standing... at which point I'm sure you'll drop straight into a seat, determined as you seem to be to oppose me..."

Gregory frowned.

"You truly don't take prisoners often, do you? It's my duty to oppose you. I'm not your guest. I'm being kept against my will. I'm not here to be 'amenable' to your wishes."

The Marquess's eyes flashed. "And whether you _stand_ whilst being kept against your will, or _sit_ whilst being kept against your will… shall it really make that much of a difference?"

Gregory held his gaze. "To me - yes."

The Marquess rolled his eyes, drinking.

Gregory bit his tongue.

"I'm sure that to _you,_ my lord - safe behind your walls, and on the winning side of a war, drinking wine that costs a labourer's life-savings, with your family and fellows all around you - to sit or to stand means nothing whatsoever... to me, it's one of few choices remaining. My freedom is my life, no matter how little of it I may have. I will make my small choices with the whole of my heart. And so, sir... no. I will not sit down."

The Marquess said nothing for a very long time. He did not drink, or move, or react. He simply watched Gregory, and considered.

"I am not a 'sir'," he intoned, at last.

Gregory bit his cheek.

"Have you told the king?" he asked.

The Marquess lifted the goblet to his mouth. "No."

Gregory searched his face. There were no answers written there. "Why?"

The Marquess folded himself into a seat beside the bed, crossing one leg over the other. "Because I make my small choices with the whole of my heart."

Gregory felt his heart stir. Part of him said it was too much to hope for. Part of him said that hope was all they had. It was to be seized, clung to, and not let go.

"That almost suggests you're conflicted, my lord."

The Marquess rolled the pewter goblet across his lower lip, watching Gregory with interest. The sovereign ring glinted on his finger. "I am," he admitted. "You're rather a keystone in this war, you know. Rebellions succeed or fail on the strength of their commanders... the Crown is an institution, but you are one man. It is both your greatest strength and greatest weakness. The people long to be led by 'just one man'. And yet, one man will always be vulnerable..."

Sir Gregory inhaled slowly.

"My lord," he said, with care. "You say the Crown does not _need_ your declaration... I imagine they should have liked it, nonetheless."

"I imagine so," the Marquess said, his expression guarded.

Gregory took a risk. "The rebel forces should like it more."

The Marquess's eyes filled with delight; the corners of his elegant mouth upturned.

"Sir Gregory..." he murmured - a reproaching purr. "This castle is loyal to the king. I've sworn more oaths than I care to remember..."

He drank, regarding Gregory over the rim of the goblet.

"I'm _appalled_ that you imagine my loyalties are up for debate..."

"The Crown is corrupt, my lord. It's well-known. The king and his advisors are bleeding this country to its death. The people support us, and the rebel forces grow in strength by the day."

"Yesterday's battle notwithstanding?"

Gregory's jaw set. "One loss. On my honour, I'll make amends for it."

"A bold claim," the Marquess remarked, "for one currently residing in a dungeon."

"The darkest hour is the best time to make bold claims."

The Marquess's expression quirked. He drank to cover his surprise. "Indeed," he muttered. "You're optimistic, if nothing else..."

"My lord - let's not toy with each other. If you'd be prepared to permit our passage - to aid our return to the rebel stronghold..."

The Marquess waited, raising an eyebrow. The goblet hovered halfway to his lips.

"... the rebel forces would be indebted to you," Gregory finished. "Deeply. And I would owe you my life."

The Marquess looked away, restraining a sigh.

"How dull," he remarked, swirling his wine.

Gregory's brow furrowed. "My lord - "

"A debt of gratitude?" The Marquess huffed. "That's your offering to me, is it? In exchange for your life? I'm disappointed, man... perhaps your life is of little value to you after all."

Gregory bit the side of his tongue.

"My lord... I'm standing here in a borrowed tunic and breeches. Unless you want my boots, I don't know what else I've got to offer you."

He gestured with the emptiness of his hands.

"I lost my horse. I lost my weapons. The Crown has already seized my lands and doled them out to loyalists. What do I _possibly_ have to trade?"

The Marquess lowered his eyes. He swirled the last of his wine, and downed it.

"I'm not going to commit treason on a vague promise of gratitude." He rose from his chair, returning to his desk for the pitcher. "If it becomes known that I laid hands on a commander of the rebel forces, and didn't present that man at once to His Majesty, my head will be on a spike above my gates before the month's end... I'm not a fool. I have my own interests to protect."

Gregory steeled himself.

"Tell me how I can serve your interests," he said.

The Marquess poured himself more wine, back turned. "How indeed."

Gregory's heart tightened.

"If I don't know what you want," he said, "I can't offer it. If it's to see me beg for my life, I will - though I don't see how that serves your interests."

The Marquess rested against the edge of his desk, drinking. "I suppose that might be entertaining..."

"Is that why I'm still alive?" Gregory asked, raising an eyebrow. "To entertain you?"

"Do I need a better reason? It might be the only one I have, Sir Gregory. I wouldn't be so quick to disregard it, if I were you."

Gregory frowned.

"If you're only going to torment me, and make my people suffer, then hand me over to His Majesty's 'justice'... get it over with, man. I'm not a pastime."

The Marquess considered this, his expression dull.

"His Majesty's gratitude is rather threadbare these days," he said at last. "He seems to believe that loyal service should be its own reward. Unwise, in these times. Handing you over would be seen as an expected performance of my duties, and no more. I'd be unlikely to benefit from your death."

"You would benefit from my _life."_

"Would I?" The Marquess drank. "In what way?"

"In the unending gratitude of the rebel leaders. And, when the war is over, I'm sure that their appreciation will be expressed in terms of - "

The Marquess waved a hand, scowling.

"Conjecture," he said. He finished his second goblet of wine, throwing it back with disregard. "Castles in the air. _Drink,_ for God's sake, will you? I'm outstripping you."

He reached for the pitcher on the desk.

"My lord," Gregory said, trying to keep the tension from his voice. He ignored the goblet in his hand. "I'm a practical man - but I've got nothing to offer. I've got nothing to exchange. My promises apparently have no value. What am I supposed to say? Tell me how I can serve your interests, or hand me over to The Crown. All the rest is just a waste of our time."

The Marquess filled his goblet for a third time. _"'A_ _practical man',_ you say."

"It's worked well so far."

"I'm glad to hear it." The Marquess licked a little wine from the edge of the goblet. "I happen to have a practical proposal for you. In truth, there's a way that you can serve my interests well."

"I'm listening."

"Are you?" The Marquess smiled into the goblet. "You may wish to sit down for this part."

Gregory's brow creased. "Still happier on my feet, thank you."

"The proud wolf," the Marquess remarked. "Upright and upstanding. A man of honour."

Gregory quietly closed his fists. "Always."

"Mm..." The Marquess lowered his eyes, taking another drink. "Then perhaps you might not appreciate my proposal at all."

Gregory frowned. "Try me."

Mycroft laughed, swirling the cup. "If only," he said, took a long drink, and picked up the pitcher.

Gregory wasn't sure what he meant. He watched in concerned silence as the Marquess approached, the heels of his boots echoing on the timber floor.

He filled Gregory's goblet to the brim.

"Drink," he said. "You'll need it."

Gregory held the goblet, wary. His gaze fixed on the Marquess's face. He was a striking man - clever, pale - quick-minded. Grey eyes.

Gregory drank, emptying half the goblet.

Mycroft watched him, lips curved, grey eyes glinting in the firelight.

"What is this proposal?" Gregory asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Lord Mycroft refilled his goblet.

"I require a single service from you," he said. "If you're willing, it would be completed by morning. I will then give you horses. I will give you fresh-forged arms. I will give you provisions, and I will have you and your men escorted safely through my forests and on your way to the rebel stronghold. I shall tell no-one of your passing. I shall not inform the king that you were here."

Gregory's stomach twisted. He searched the Marquess's eyes.

It was a trick, he thought. It had to be. What the Marquess was proposing amounted to the highest of high treason. A clearer declaration of support for the rebel cause could not be made.

"The king will have your head," he said.

The Marquess held his gaze.

"If he finds out," he intoned, nudging Gregory's goblet with his own - they gave a gentle clink together. "Which he shan't."

Gregory drank. The stuff tasted like high summer made into liquid.

"The rebel forces will have to hear you aided me," he said. "They'll ask who gave me provisions and safe passage. I cannot lie."

"Then don't," Lord Mycroft said. _"Te_ _ll_ them, for God's sake. And tell them that the Marquess who hides behind his castle walls is perhaps more of a friend than they assumed. They're sending the great army this way, aren't they? It's an obvious deduction. You were told to clear passage, and you failed. If only there were a stronghold in this area that could provide shelter, food and rest to the army when it comes. As you said, Sir Gregory... let us not _toy_ with each other any longer. I'm offering you two priceless gifts - to you, your life; to your cause, a crown. I do believe you'd do anything to secure them."

Gregory was about to utter 'yes' - with neither condition nor question.

The Marquess's support would change the tide of the war. With a single agreement, Gregory's reputation would shift from the rebel commander who'd seen his forces decimated, his cause left in ruins and his every hope shattered, to the man who had secured their victory. He would be written into history for a hundred years. The country would be free at last. It was a miracle.

And yet something in the Marquess's gaze gave him pause. He felt his heart fall still inside his chest, wondering what it was he was seeing - that darkened glitter.

He searched the man's expression; his heart heaved.

"What the hell do you want from me?"

Lord Mycroft drank. His eyes didn't leave Gregory's face.

As he lowered the goblet, he licked a last drop of wine from his lips.

"I want you to spend the night in my bed," he murmured.

 


	3. Scrawl

****It was some moments before Gregory could be sure what he'd heard.

The Marquess waited, entirely calm, watching his face for a reaction.

 _What the hell has the bastard found out_? _Who has talked_? Gregory selected his lovers with greater care than he took over anything else in his life. Nobody knew. He was certain.

He'd _thought_ he was certain.

His teeth gritted. He glared into the Marquess's cool grey eyes. "You're mocking me."

The Marquess frowned, lifting his goblet.

"No," he murmured against the rim. "Why should I mock you?"

"I'm - not sure what you think you've heard, _my lord._ But rest assured it's false. And I don't appreciate your attempt to sully my honour with this joke."

 _"Is_ it a joke?"

Gregory's anger flared. "I am - _not_ a sodomite."

"Yes, you are," Mycroft hummed. He tapped Gregory's goblet with his own. "Drink. And stop panicking. Your secret is safe with me." His eyes glittered. "One of the stable-hands from your family's estate is now in my employ. He remembers you fondly."

Gregory shut his eyes. Shame coursed through his chest, hot and cold at once.

"I - keep this - _weakness_ a closely-guarded secret, my lord."

The Marquess sighed.

"For someone supposedly so charismatic, Sir Gregory, you're a dreadful bore... I'm not about to hand you over to the authorities. Dolt. I'd have to hand myself in as well. And I doubt they'd let us share a cell."

Gregory drank, screwing his eyes shut. The wine burned in his throat.

"If your head's destined for a spike," the Marquess said, "it will be there for treason. Not for indulging yourself with other men. Now stop wasting my time, for heaven's sake, and answer my proposal. I can have the horses saddled for you by first light."

Gregory stared at him over the goblet.

He swallowed, hard. Wine slid thickly down his throat.

"You - were _serious?_ " he said.

The Marquess scowled. "Of course," he said, coolly. Gregory's heart lurched in his chest. "Do you have any notion of how _tired_ I am of stable-hands and squires? Nobody of even vague interest has made it through my walls in about ten years. I'm eminently serious."

"And - and you wish to - ..." Gregory could barely speak. "... with - _me?"_

The Marquess's expression quietened. He regarded Gregory darkly for a moment, as if surprised that he had to explain this.

"The handsome rebel commander," he murmured, "who has evaded every attempt to lay hands on him. Brave as a lion. Strong as a bear... and now desperately in need of my help. Of course I wish to. Now get on the bed, and stop boring me."

Gregory felt the room lurch. He put the goblet down before he dropped it, backing away as he tried to process what was happening.

"This is - ... my lord - I - "

"Unless you'd _rather_ be handed over to the authorities?" The Marquess's eyebrow arched. "I doubt you'll get such a compassionate offer from the king. You could always try."

"I - ... on my honour, I -... I couldn't - ..."

The Marquess covered his eyes with a hand. "God preserve me from your _honour_ , Sir Gregory..." He sighed. "The situation is this. You can spend a night in my bed, where I can assure you that you will be exceedingly well looked after. In the morning, you and I part on the very best of terms. You then ride away with a number of my horses, all the provisions you need, and an escort of my private household guard. They will see you to the very gates of the stronghold. You'll ensure that your rebel masters know very well who returned you to their care, and the world becomes a much better place. For us both."

He picked up his goblet, filling it with the last dregs of the pitcher.

"Alternatively," he said - and drained the goblet in a single motion, "you can rot in my dungeon until the authorities arrive." He put the goblet down with a clang. "The king will take possession of you and your men, butcher them before you like swine, strike your head from your shoulders, and I'll go on fucking stable-hands who are too scared even to kiss me."

Gregory's heart reeled. He struggled to get the words out. "I am not a _tavern slut."_

"Which is why I'm not offering you _coppers_ ," the Marquess snapped. "I'm offering you your _damnable life._ Is my bed truly such an unsettling prospect for you that you'd rather die? In which case, Sir Gregory, let me call my bodyguard. We'll see to that for you now."

"No, my lord - you are - ... you're very much what I - ..." Gregory stopped himself. This was madness - utter, raving madness. He put his hands to his head, forcing himself to think. "It's the principle of it. I'm not - ... my _dignity_ isn't for barter!"

"You assume I was going to treat you with indignity? As it happens, I had rather the opposite in mind."

"God help me." Gregory reached for a chair. He sat down, pushing his hands up into his hair. "You've - shocked me, sir. Truly."

"I am not a 'sir'. And I pity your dull life so far, if this is all it takes to shock you."

"I - need time to think. I can't answer you now. This isn't a small choice."

"Death or pleasure? The smallest of choices."

"Death or _dignity,"_ Gregory said, looking up from his hands. His chest heaved. "You think I want to lead my men to safety, knowing I bought their freedom with my body?"

"Then watch them hang," the Marquess said, his expression closing down, "and know that you bought it with your honour."

Gregory covered his eyes.

"For God's sake. You're a rebel sympathiser - I _know_ it now. You've as good as confessed it to me. Just - let us _go._ Let us leave."

The Marquess laughed. There was no warmth in it.

"I sympathise with _myself,"_ he said, "and with no other. This war can rage on outside my walls for decades, for all that I care. Here I shall sit, safe from both sides and bored out of my skull. So go ahead. Rip the country apart. Tear it open. I do not care. I care that I am _lonely._  I care that my life is passing me by, sealed inside these walls. If you want me to side with your rebel friends, I need proof of your faith. I need to know that when the Crown comes for vengeance against me, I have the greatest possible support of the rebel force - and the intimate trust of their leader."

Gregory's heart pounded. "I am not the rebel leader."

"No," the Marquess said. "But you will be." The breath vanished from Gregory's lungs. "Time to think, you said? Perhaps another night in the dungeon will help you contemplate the situation. Seeing as a night in my bedchamber is so displeasing an option to you."

Gregory closed his eyes. "I didn't say I found it - 'displeasing', I merely - "

"You have one night to decide," the Marquess said, cold. He approached Gregory's chair; the hem of his open robe brushed the floor boards as he moved. "Part payment," he said, "in good faith."

He took Gregory's jaw in his hands.

Before Gregory could think, the Marquess lifted his face and kissed him - hard.

Gregory's sound of shock was lost against the Marquess's mouth. Hands dragged into his hair, the signet ring grazing against his scalp, and for several seconds Gregory was too startled to move - too stunned to think. The Marquess's tongue pushed into his mouth and raked it with almost ferocious passion, shivering as he explored. He tasted of wine.

Gregory's heart had ceased to beat.

Something in his stomach that had no care for his honour - no care for his dignity - raged at once for more. It snarled its burning approval, urging him to touch - to pull the wretched man into his arms, tear the embroidered robes off him and see if they could better occupy that smart mouth for a while.

He doubted the Marquess was always so fucking erudite.

He wanted to find out where the boundary lay.

But God above, it wasn't _right._

They were fighting this war for freedom - not to keep indulging the wishes and whims of powerful men. Men who thought they could own people like livestock.

Gregory's hands clenched as he fought the sudden frenzy of desire.

Then as suddenly as the Marquess had struck, he let him go.

He pulled back with a snarl, turned away and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, breathing hard. He smoothed his hair with a hand.

As quickly as it had been thrown aside, order was restored.

"Yuri!" the Marquess barked.

The door opened. As the massive bodyguard appeared, Gregory struggled to control his breathing. He shifted to cover the hardened bulge at his breeches.

"Take him back to the dungeon. Make sure Sophie's fed them."

"Yes, my lord."

"You have a night and a day to think, Sir Gregory," the Marquess warned, as Yuri stepped forwards, pulling Greg to his feet. "I suggest that you think rather hard. Now sit up slowly - there's Alka Seltzer on the bedside for you."

"There's - ... _what,_ excuse me?" Gregory said, turning his head.

As he did, the whole world whirled like it was about to collapse. Gregory groaned, clutching his forehead - _holy_ _God,_  the pain - and what the hell was that _light?_  That white, agonising light? The Marquess's chambers dissolved in the sudden blaze of it, burning away the fire and the stone and the smoke. Greg covered his eyes, fighting the urge to whimper. His mouth suddenly tasted like the bottom of Toby's gerbil cage. What had been in that _wine?_  He'd only had two goblets full.

"I told you so," the Marquess said to him, amused, as Greg gripped his head and tried not to pass out.

"Oh - oh, _Christ..."_ His entire skull was pulsing. "Holy shit, my head..."

Gentle fingers carded through his hair, cool strokes stirring through the pain. Greg pushed desperately into Mycroft's arms, wishing he was dead. He couldn't be totally sure he wasn't.

"What the _fuck?"_  he managed, despairing.

"How do you feel?"

Greg winced. "No..."

"I see." Mycroft smiled against his forehead. "And what do you remember?"

Greg groaned again, clenching his eyes shut.

"Do you remember grabbing my arse," Mycroft enquired, "in front of two hundred people, and informing me I'm 'lush'?"

"Oh - _shit..."_

"I didn't think you would," Mycroft said, petting his hair. Greg suddenly realised his husband wasdressed - worksuit and tie, briefcase waiting by the bed. "Well, you have plenty of time to rehearse your apology... I have to go for a few hours. National interest. A driver's on the way. I'll be back this evening, by which time you'll have had a few hours to weep, and to regret, and we can continue our romantic weekend away."

"I'm an idiot," Greg mumbled into his shoulder. He held onto Mycroft, feeling his head pound with pain. "M'sorry, love... Yuri just kept - pouring out these tiny bloody glasses... Christ... and I had another weird dream..."

"Here," Mycroft said, softly. He transferred the Alka Seltzer glass to Greg's hand. "Drink."

Greg drank, screwing up his nose.

"Now lie down," Mycroft said, taking the glass from him. "Close your eyes, rest, and promise your endlessly patient husband that you shan't ever drink vodka with a Russian again."

"I promise." Greg laid back down, wondering how even pillows could seem too sharp, too big, too _white._  "Myke... I fucked up..."

"Yes," Mycroft murmured. "Yes, you did." He kissed Greg's forehead. "Now sleep," he said. "I adore you."

"I love you, gorgeous. M'really sorry."

"Text me when you're awake," Mycroft soothed. "Sweet dreams."

The soft snap of the door made Greg wince. He heaved the covers up over his head, listening to the darkness banging in his ears.

 

* * *

 

It was almost two PM by the time Greg emerged. He crawled into the shower and spent fifteen minutes propped against the wall, concentrating on breathing as the hot water cascaded over his face.

He was never going to drink again.

Never.

Especially not with Yuri.

Christ, had they even gotten round to the macarena? He couldn't remember. He could see Mycroft dancing with Sophie - the foxtrot, he thought - and he could see Sophie reading something... consulting a book in her arms... the flicker of torchlight over her face...

_The dream._

Greg was so hungover that it took a while for it all to come back to him. It was getting crazy now, he thought, as he very slowly and gently shampooed his hair. He'd never dreamed much in his life - save a few old nightmares. Now he was having full-length movies delivered direct to his head.

He almost hoped he hadn't seen the last of it.

Greg rinsed his hair, washed himself, then took himself in a fluffy white bathrobe back to bed. He ordered Room Service, asking for it to be added to 'the Holmes's bill', and had a short nap as he waited for his food to arrive.

His phone dinged just as he finished eating.

 

 _Has it worked?_ _  
_ _M xxx_

 

Greg frowned a little, licking crumbs off his fingers.

 

_has what worked? x_

 

 _A banana and a cheese sandwich.  
I understand it was quite the miracle cure when you were twenty. _ _  
_ _M xxx_

 

Greg glanced at the banana peel and spots of cheese left on his plate.

 

_Lets find out... 'being twenty' probably worked when i was twenty… sorry I screwed up treacle. You're too good for me. You done safe guarding the national interest yet? x_

 

 _I made that joke last night as well._  
_I should be back with you for 8pm. Late dinner? Will you be able to keep yourself entertained?_  
_No need to apologise any more... all forgiven.  
__Rather nice to know I am still 'lush'._  
_M xxx_

 

Greg found himself smiling like a lovesick teenager as he typed his reply, curling back beneath the covers. He moved the plate to the bedside cabinet where it wouldn't end up on the floor.

 

_i'll be ok, don't worry about me. Will probably just sleep. That nice bistro again for dinner? cheesecake? :D I love you. You ARE lush. kisses from Mr Holmes x_

 

He'd drifted off by the time Mycroft's reply arrived. Greg squirmed a hand from beneath the covers for his phone, squinting at the message with a smile.

 

 _You are quite adorable. More Alka Seltzer in the bedside drawer if you need it._  
_Don't get up to anything fun without me._  
_M xxx_

 

Greg peered at the time on his phone. It was just past three now - five hours to wait. He supposed he could lie around in bed until then, and write this day off as a lesson in his waning tolerance for alcohol.

But he fancied some fresh air.

And there was somewhere he quite wanted to see again.

 

* * *

 

The lady on the Admissions Desk remembered Greg from Friday. He supposed he and Mycroft were a memorable couple - Mycroft was always rather charming to customer service people, and Greg just beamed to be near him. She let Greg in again without having to pay, gave him another map of the castle grounds, and told him she hoped he enjoyed his second visit.

On his way in, Greg passed the open doorway to the Gift Shop. A display of notebooks just inside caught his eye. They were spiral-bound, covered with a glossy photograph of the castle gatehouse, piled up in a big stack beside an array of fancy pens made to look like quills.

Greg paused, gazing at the notebooks.

It was a weird impulse. He knew it.

Maybe it was just being away for the weekend - maybe he was still a bit drunk. It could be both. He supposed if the worst thing he did while feeling frivolous on holiday was buy a notebook, they were fairly lucky. _What would I even do with a notebook?_ he thought.

He ignored the obvious answer.

Telling himself he could always give it to Toby for school, he bought a notebook and a pencil.

Half an hour later, he found himself alone in the lord's bedchamber.

He could see it all so clearly - the fireplace, the bed, the desk with the pitcher of wine. He could hear the soft thunk of the Marquess's boots as they slowly crossed the floor towards him. He could feel the chair creak as the Marquess leant down, cupping his face - pulling him up for that savage, lonely kiss. He could feel the warmth of the fire, hear the rain on the window.

This room was empty around him, full of shadows and echoes - but he could read all those shadows like words on a page. They took shape around him and began to move, creating themselves in his head as easily as if they'd always been there.

Greg breathed in slowly, still holding the notebook.

He knew it was stupid.

But he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Telling himself it would get it all out of his head, he opened the unmarked white page and turned the pencil in his fingers. He started to scribble.

At twenty past five, a spotty teenager in a uniform came to tell him they were closing soon. Embarrassed, Greg put the notebook away and got up from the floor, dusting off his jeans. He'd written without a pause for over an hour, the notebook now crumpled and creased and covered in pencil scrawls.

"Are you a writer?" the spotty teenager asked, as he led Greg back down to the ticket office.

"Oh - God, no. I'm just killing time."

"Not published yet?" the teenager said. "You'll get there. Hope it works out."

"Right," Greg said, astounded. "Thanks."

He went to the cafe in the square, ordered the largest flat white that they sold, and wrote until his hand ached.

 

 _Just got into final taxi… heaven help me, I need to retire… meet me at the bistro? I should be there in twenty minutes or so. Will be very glad to see you._ _  
_ _M xxx_

 

Greg drained his third coffee, headed to the bistro, and got a table for two in the window.

Another text arrived as he took off his jacket.

 

 _How's the head?_ _  
_ _M xxx_

 

As he read the message, Greg realised he'd almost completely forgotten his hangover. He replied with a smile, as the waiter brought him a Diet Coke and left him with the specials menu to peruse.

 

_fine strangely! The wonders of a banana and a cheese sandwich. can't wait for you to get here x_

 

As he waited, he finished the scene he was writing - _notes_ , he told himself, not a scene - and it was _scribbling,_  not _writing_. He was just killing time. Just a bit of fun.

All the same, he wanted to finish it.

He added the last few words with a smile, pleased by the feeling of that important full-stop. He flicked through the impressive sheath of pages he'd scrawled. It felt good, seeing his handwriting flutter by - flashes of words.

He tucked the notebook away inside his jacket.

It had been a good day - considering that he'd started it barely able to see.

Mycroft arrived not long afterwards, flustered and carrying his briefcase. Even at a distance, Greg could see London all over him - he was covered in it, as visible as heavy dust.

The waiter gestured Mycroft over to the table, where Greg beamed beside a large glass of white wine. Mycroft's face folded with relief.

"I'm desperately sorry," he said, wrapping Greg up in his arms as his husband stood to greet him. "What a mess. I take one damn weekend off..."

"Hey... it's fine. C'mere." Greg pulled his coat off for him, draping it over the back of his chair. "You've had a rough journey... it's okay now. Sit down. I got you white wine, is that alright?"

Mycroft collapsed into his chair, swallowing the first mouthful of wine with intense relief.

Greg wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

"You seem miraculously recovered," Mycroft remarked, studying him across the table with a half-smile. "You've not been drinking more, have you?"

"What? No, love. It was your Alka Seltzer this morning. Sorted me right out."

"Perhaps I should have more faith in your constitution," Mycroft said, amused. He picked up the specials menu, scanning it with longing. "I hope you're hungry... I'm ravenous. What was it you had on Friday night?"

"I had the lamb shoulder - and the cheesecake. Both amazing."

"God bless you and your cheesecake," Mycroft sighed. "I'll have to have the lamb this time. I do believe I stole most of yours. What are you thinking?"

"That you're gorgeous," Greg said.

Mycroft's face opened with delight. He gazed at his husband across the table, disarmed at once of all his stress. His smile made Greg's heart flutter. "What are you thinking to _eat?"_  Mycroft said.

Greg's eyes slid sideways. "You?"

Mycroft put the menu down. He reached across the table, taking Greg's left-hand. Their fingers twined together, rings nestling side-by-side.

"I adore you," Mycroft said. "I hope that's... _utterly_ clear. You are the most patient, most understanding, most remarkable person I have ever met, and I am amazed everyday that I get to so much as speak to you - let alone share my days with you. You are beautiful."

"Myke..." Greg's heart thumped, a soft ache. "Myke, I - kinda don't want to go tomorrow. This has been amazing."

"Bath next," Mycroft said, smiling.

Greg frowned. "There's only a shower in the room."

Mycroft's mouth twisted with amusement.

" _The_ _city_ _of_ Bath, next," he said. "We'll go next month. Take off for the weekend, just the two of us… enjoy some culture…"

"I'd love that," Greg said, his heart expanding. He gripped Myke's hand. "That'd be great."

"Are you sure you're still alright to drive home tomorrow? I'm happy to swap halfway, if you wish..."

"I'll be fine," Greg said, with a grin. "You know I love to drive. Keep me company, and it'll fly by."

Mycroft stroked the back of his hand with a thumb. "We'll have to make sure you get a good night's sleep," he said.

Greg's stomach curled. "I'll leave that in your hands, shall I?" he said.

Mycroft's eyes gleamed. It reminded Greg of another person's face - a person who didn't even exist, he realised, but was gazing at him across this table right now.

"You are eternally safe in my hands," his husband murmured.

When they got back to the hotel, as Mycroft took a shower, Greg added a single line to his notebook.

 


	4. Intimate Trust

****As Sir Gregory was returned to the dungeons bathed, and wearing someone else's clothing, Lady Donovan looked up in concern.

"What happened to you?" she asked, trying not to stare at his collarbones.

Gregory picked his way to the back of the cell with a scowl.

"Apparently I resembled a forest brigand," he muttered. "It was necessary for me to be washed, so as not to offend his lordship's delicate nasal passages..."

"Those are - rather tight," she said, eyeing the breeches.

Gregory's frown deepened.

"Be quiet," he said, glad she could not see the colour in his face. "The others are sleeping."

"We're not," muttered a slumped figure nearby.

"Well, you are _meant_ to be..." Gregory pushed his back against the cold stone wall, wrapping his arms about his torso for warmth. "Have they fed you all?"

"They brought us ale," said another of his men, listlessly. "Apparently we shall have the leftovers from the feast tonight."

Gregory bit his cheek. "Let's hope his lordship's hounds are not hungry." He shut his eyes, resting his head back against the wall. "A benevolent man indeed... his generosity knows no limits."

"What did he say to you?" Lady Donovan asked, shifting beside her commander in the dark.

Gregory didn't know where to begin. He hated to lie, but what could he possibly tell them that wouldn't lead to unanswerable questions? He didn't want them to know there was a way out of here - the thought of it was crushing his heart. With a single yes, he could ensure their safety. They could return to their families and their homes. They would beg him to do it - at any cost.

But it wouldn't be them who spent the night in the Marquess's bed.

Perhaps he should have proposed that - all eighteen of them, in lieu of him. The Marquess was sure to find at least one that he liked. It seemed Lady Donovan might have been graciously declined, but the rest of them were strapping young men who all suited their leathers - and in terms of sheer quantity, the Marquess couldn't have complained...

Gregory covered his eyes with his palms.

He suddenly felt more tired than he had in his life.

"The Marquess," he said, "has not yet informed the king of our capture. I - don't know where his loyalties truly lie. I suspect he's a man who keeps faith with himself and no-one else..." He bit his tongue. "Largely he wanted to sneer at me."

"You should have fucked him, Sir Gregory," said an archer lying against the opposite wall.

Gregory nearly swallowed his own tongue.

"I should have -  _what,_  excuse me?" he demanded.

"You should have _fucked_ him," said the archer, as if this was patently clear. "His lordship's obviously partial to a rebel commander in tight breeches. You should have seduced him, bedded him, stolen the key from his robes in the night... we could have crept out of the main gate with twenty of their best horses. Halfway to the border by dawn."

Gregory could not believe his ears. "Do you genuinely think this is the time to joke? I'll hear no more of it."

A spearman across the cell joined in. "Sir Gregory, if the Marquess wants to 'entreat' with you again... perhaps seduction might be worth the attempt. If he thinks you're on his side, he'll let us all go free."

To Gregory's astonishment, there were murmurs of agreement from the darkness all around.

"This is - _lunacy,"_  he said. "Utter, unspeakable lunacy."

"He's fairly striking," offered Lady Donovan. "In an... arrogant sort of way."

"He's not anything of the sort," Gregory snapped. "I am not going to seduce our way out of a prison cell. Your flippancy grieves me. Greatly." He paused. "And for what it's worth, the whole bloody lot of you - I am _not_ _inclined_ to the company of men."

There was scattered laughter.

"To the devil with you all," Sir Gregory muttered, to further laughter.

"The Marquess is clearly inclined to the company of _you,_  Sir Gregory..." someone said. "Those breeches. Heaven help us."

Gregory rubbed at the bridge of his nose in despair. He tried not to remember the feel of the Marquess's hands at his jaw - the tongue easing with desperation between his lips - the jolt of loss he'd felt as the Marquess had pulled away.

He closed his eyes, willing the cold dungeon air to soothe his nerves.

"You do me a disservice," he told them at last. "Every one of you. I thought you knew me as a man of honour."

"There's no honour in the grave," someone murmured.

"None at all," another said.

Sir Gregory felt a chill prickle through his heart.

To see them hang… he couldn't bear the thought.

Part of him hoped the Marquess wouldn't go through with it. Surely the man's sense of compassion and decency would win out.

But then, this was war - and war was not fair. It would be the Crown that hanged them, not the Marquess. Lord Mycroft would live on inside his walls, unmoved by the storm of power that battered against them, disinclined to care for the fate of the rebel commander who had turned down his support.

Lonely, Gregory thought. Isolated.

Seeking comfort in stable-hands who would not kiss him.

And why was it _that_ thought that twisted Gregory's stomach so?

When the leftovers arrived, he expected scraps not worth the effort to toss into the kennels. Instead, he watched with unease as his men were handed entire loaves of bread through the bars, cold joints of beef and fresh fruit, along with jugs of ale that were gladly guzzled down.

Gregory couldn't bring himself to eat.

With every mouthful, he was aware of consuming the Marquess's generosity. _Behold,_  the food seemed to say. _See what your co-operation might earn you._ He was glad to see his men eat - but he was no happier for it himself.

He suspected he was paying for it all on credit.

Sleep, when it came, was disjointed and unsettling.

One minute he was back on the battlefield, watching his forces decimated around him - seeing history torn out of his hands. The next he was on his knees in a forest clearing, tending the wounds of a man who would be killed by a scout's arrow within the hour. He was then seated on a chair in the Marquess's bedchamber. He was feeling hands hitch beneath the hem of his tunic and divest him of it, roaming eagerly across his chest, the Marquess's tongue coiling with his own in carnal intimacy. He was wrapping his arms around the Marquess's lean form, enjoying the man's delighted shudder, feeling his own breeches tighten in response.

 _I want you to spend the night in my bed_ , the Marquess had murmured.

Not an hour. Not a few hours.

The night, in its entirety.

He was to lie beside the Marquess's bare body in the firelight - run his hands across the man's pale, pristine skin - follow the path of his hands with his mouth, perhaps. Labour for his lordship's satisfaction. Sleep, only to be woken again for more of his attentions in the dark.

And then in the morning, to ride away with the Marquess's household guard at his back. Provisions, fresh steel. Straight back to the stronghold.

_I am not the rebel leader._

_No, but you will be._

Night and the following day passed by.

Slowly, Gregory came to a decision.

This went above his own damn honour. He wouldn't force his people to pay for his pride with their blood.

He wouldn't condemn the rebel cause for the integrity of one man - even if that one man was him.

 

* * *

 

More food and drink arrived the next morning. Gregory touched none of it. There was no room in the cell to pace, but he stood so that others could sleep. His agitation was affecting the rest, and he knew it. Conversation was strained, conducted only in mutters. Gregory couldn't bring himself to cheer them. If he had to suffer the night on their behalf, they could stand a few hours of unease.

The oncoming night was announced by its herald - Sophie, her tread soft on the stone flags, with the deeper clank of armoured footsteps that followed her. Firelight fluttered across the bars of the cell. Gregory braced himself, folding his arms across his chest. She sought the crowd of prisoners for his face.

As she found him, she said nothing - merely locked eyes with him, and waited.

Gregory looked back. He realised he was being asked a question.

He drew in a breath, imagining again that unbearable sight - his men, hanged or worse, never again to go home - their spirits locked forever in this cage. His heart thudded in his chest as Sophie waited for his answer.

At last, he gave a small and guarded nod.

She produced a ball of keys from her belt.

"Sir Gregory," she said, unlocking the cell door. "The Marquess has ordered you moved to better accommodation. I'm to show you to the guest quarters. Your retinue are also now permitted to sleep in the hall... under guard, of course, but it should allow you all more space. I'll have wolfskins and blankets sent up."

Heads turned in amazement towards Gregory.

He staunchly ignored the lot of them. Frowning, he muttered,

"Fine. That's - generous of your master."

"Do follow me," she said.

Gregory bit his tongue. He stepped between his men and followed her from the dungeon, saying nothing as she led him once more through the castle. Yuri clanked along behind them, his great shadow cast by torchlight over the walls.

"Am I - actually being taken to guest quarters?" Gregory asked, as Yuri heaved open the oak doors in the hall.

Sophie cast a look of fond amusement over one shoulder.

"No, Sir Gregory... you're not."

Gregory wished he hadn't asked. She led him upstairs, through the dayroom full of books, and then knocked on the door of the Marquess's bedchamber.

When it opened, a number of servants and a guard filed out. They made no sound as they left, eyes lowered to the floor.

Sophie gestured.

"You're expected, Sir Gregory."

Gregory steeled himself.

By morning, all his fortunes would be restored. Let the night play out as it would. He'd asked for a miracle. It was his own fault he'd neglected to specify the terms.

He pushed open the door, and stepped through into the quiet space.

Applewood and sweet-smelling herbs had been added to the fire. It was the only source of light in the room - flickering, rich as orange garnets in the blackness, gilding everything with a bloodied glow. Gregory cast his eyes around the chamber as he entered, fearful of what he was about to see.

The Marquess was writing quietly at his desk.

Gregory found himself surprised. 

The Marquess didn't seem to have noticed his arrival. He was finishing a letter with a dulled expression, head resting on one hand as his quill twirled and twitched.

Gregory hesitated, unsure if he should break the silence.

"Sit down," the Marquess intoned, as if to no-one. "I'll be with you in a moment."

Gregory's stomach tightened. He closed the door with a clunk, made sure it was locked, and uneasily took a seat at the end of the bed.

The Marquess continued to write. Gregory watched him reach for a piece of dry bread on his desk and eat it absent-mindedly as he scratched in a few more lines.

He then cleaned off his quill, laid the letter aside to dry, and stood up from his chair.

Gregory braced himself as the Marquess approached. He almost expected to be knocked backwards onto the bed and leapt upon.

But the Marquess merely placed a cup into his hand. He retrieved the pitcher of wine from the bedside table and filled the cup for Gregory, saying nothing.

Today's robes were a deep midnight blue. The tunic beneath them was a softened sable black.

"Thank you," Gregory said, unnerved by the silence.

"You are welcome." The Marquess seemed tired - older, greyer. He returned the pitcher to the bedside, and went to check on how his ink was drying.

With nothing else to do in the uncomfortable quiet, Gregory drank.

Only once he'd finished did he realise the Marquess was not drinking.

"Is it... poisoned tonight?" he asked, earning himself a reluctant smile. The Marquess was now poring over a ledger, his eyes narrow in the dim light.

"No," the Marquess murmured. "Your retinue haven't been slaughtered either, before it crosses your mind... they'll be sleeping in the hall. I'm afraid some of them might have had to share a blanket."

"That's - fine," Gregory said. "Thank you."

The silence returned. The Marquess copied a few things from his ledger, frowning. Gregory found himself rolling the cup between his hands, wondering whether he'd misunderstood their exchange.

"You fed my men well," he remarked - purely for something to say.

"Mm? Oh - well, we maintain ample stores... siege is a very real danger. We keep everything in plentiful supply."

The Marquess's voice trailed out, distracted by something in his ledger. He scratched it out with a frown.

Gregory pressed the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

"And - you'll let us go in the morning?" he checked. "You'll - keep your word. Return us safely to the stronghold."

The Marquess hesitated, his quill falling still.

He finally gave a silent sigh. He put the quill to one side, picked up the wine pitcher, and stepped out from behind his desk.

As he refilled Gregory's cup, he said,

"You do not wish to be here."

Gregory's heart sank. He didn't know why. "I'm - here to uphold our exchange."

"How noble of you."

"Have I been mistaken in something?"

"No." The Marquess put aside the pitcher. "No, you haven't."

He settled into a chair some distance from the bed, quietly crossing one leg over the other. Gregory's eyes were drawn irresistibly to his thighs in those breeches - the elegant curve of his long leather boots.

"You've shown that you'd have done as I asked," the Marquess said. "I've... successfully _bullied_ you into my bedchamber, under threat of losing your life... I will provide you with the things that I promised."

Gregory found himself disarmed. He wondered what he'd done wrong.

"I - haven't provided _you_ with anything," he said, with care.

The Marquess did not meet his eyes.

"I'm touched that you consented to accompany Sophie." He leant back in his chair, rubbing his fingertips in a circle on his forehead. "That's - quite enough for me. The knowledge that, when forced to choose between a gruesome public death and my company, you very narrowly inclined towards my company. I'm flattered, Sir Gregory. Thank you."

Gregory felt something quiet and unhappy stir beneath his ribs.

"You - don't wish to - ..." It left him with an oddly hollow feeling.

"I was... overly candid with you yesterday," the Marquess said, after a moment.

"In what way?"

The Marquess took some time to respond.

"I was - not dishonest with you. Sincerely, I'm tired of... making love to people too frightened to oppose me... it saddens me." He drew a quiet breath, eyes guarded and trained somewhere in the fire. "But, another name on that list is the last thing I need..."

He'd begun to turn his ring around his finger, Gregory realised.

It seemed to be a way of calming himself.

"I drink too much," the Marquess added. "It's - all I have to do, most evenings. Work and drink. This wretched place. I should not have kissed you. I should not have proposed to you the exchange that I did. It was... _ignoble_ of me. Ungentlemanly. At the sight of you, I... fear I rather lost my head." He hesitated. "And I apologise."

He glanced down at his hand, quietly revolving the signet ring.

"Solitude makes it hard to act with honour," he mumured. "Please accept my regrets."

Gregory's heart was beating hard.

"'Solitude'..." he said. "You - mean loneliness."

The Marquess arched an eyebrow, unsettled. "If you will. They... refer to the same concept, I suppose."

"I'm - sorry you are lonely."

"I'm sorry your forces were destroyed." The Marquess's tones were quiet with sincerity. "You seem a capable commander. Your men look to you for strength and comfort. You clearly care for them deeply... enough to sacrifice your integrity for their safety."

He removed an imaginary speck from the knee of his breeches, his eyes dark.

"A man who rules for the love of his people will always have it," he murmured. "A man who rules through fear will find himself holding only disdain."

Greg's throat was oddly thick.

For the sake of his cause, there was something he needed to ask.

"Are you - still declaring for the rebel forces?" he said.

The Marquess's expression shuttered.

"Yes. They will win this war. All the signs are there..." His fingers flexed, curling his ring back into place. "Tell them that I helped you. Tell them I'll shelter the army, when it comes... I'll give you a letter to that effect with my seal. Pass it to whomever needs to be reassured."

"My lord... this is - ..." Gregory hesitated, trying to find any words that expressed the true depth of what he felt. "You - can't imagine how appreciated - "

The Marquess smiled, hollow.

"And there it is," he murmured. His gaze dulled. "Appreciation. Your initial offer to me. I should have accepted it when you first made it."

He stood from his chair.

"Thank you for your gracious words, Sir Gregory. I will now let you go to the hall, to rest for the night with your people. You have a long ride ahead of you... I imagine you will need the sleep."

He moved away across the chamber, his robes ghosting across the floor.

He took up a candle from the bedside, removed it from its holder, and leaned down to light it from the flames.

Gregory watched, feeling his chest grow tight.

He found himself not moving, still sitting on the end of the Marquess's bed, as he tried to understand what was keeping him here - why he would now no sooner walk out of this room than he would sprout small wings and vanish up the chimney.

_How sad that you are never kissed. A man of your fire. Your mind. A castle that will keep you safe all your life, and all you want is to make love._

The silence thickened.

"Do you require Sophie to show you the way?" the Marquess asked, his voice quiet. His back was turned; the fireplace cast his shadow far across the room, flickering at the edges, far bigger than he seemed.

Gregory looked down into his empty cup.

He put it aside.

As the Marquess fitted the candle into the holder beside his bed, frowning, Gregory's hands laid upon his back.

The Marquess stiffened at once. "What are you doing?" he said, turning in alarm.

Gregory stepped forward, pushing him up against a tapestry. He was treated to a split-second view of the Marquess's startled expression before he covered the man's mouth with his own. He slid his hands along the Marquess's jaw, kissing him with intention, resisting his fretful struggles.

As their mouths came apart with a gasp, the Marquess's eyes flew wide.

"What are you _doing_?" he breathed.

"Is it not clear?" Gregory caught his wrists, lifting them above his head. He pinned them into place. "Must I be more forward?"

The Marquess's pupils doubled in size. He pulled against Gregory's hold, testing it - finding it entirely firm.

"You - you don't have to - ... I-I realise you from - "

"No," Gregory murmured. "I don't have to. But by God, I _want_ to." He kissed the man again - slower this time, _harder,_  kissing him until he quaked between the wall and Gregory's body, until his wrists pulled in desperation at Gregory's hold. 

Gregory held them fast.

He ravished the soft, warm mouth with his tongue, delighted to find it yielding so quickly to him - to hear the Marquess's shocked gasps against his lips - to catch the tightening of his breath, the weakening of his moans.

Heat from the fire lapped at Gregory's back.

He wanted to feel it on his bare skin.

As their mouths parted, the Marquess trembled in his hold.

"Oh..." he whispered, lost.

Gregory dipped his head, nuzzling beneath the man's chin. His neck was soft and warm. His skin was pale as cream; he was satisfying to kiss.

The Marquess's wintry grey eyes fluttered shut with enjoyment. "Oh - God on high..."

Gregory released the Marquess's wrists as he explored his pretty throat, glorying in the shivers and sounds that it earned him. He let his hands wander instead beneath the Marquess's open robes - seeking with enjoyment over swathes of black silk, rounding the seat of the Marquess's breeches to pull him closer. The Marquess let out a high-pitched groan, shocked. Gregory discovered that he liked his earlobes gently bitten; he liked restless fingers raking over his sides. Breathing hard now, he loosened the shirt from the Marquess's belt, and pushed his hands with eagerness beneath it.

The Marquess let out a sound that wrenched his heart in two. He shuddered with longing, flushing to his hairline as Gregory's hands stroked his bare torso beneath the silk - easing, exploring, sliding across his velvet skin.

"This - ..." The Marquess swallowed, his head falling back against the wall in helpless excitement. "This isn't n-necessary - you do not have to - "

"I'm making my choice, my lord..." Gregory brushed his thumbs across the Marquess's peaked nipples. "... with the whole of my heart."

The Marquess shut his eyes tightly. "Oh, God - "

"You don't demand my presence in your bed... so let me offer it. A gift. Free of condition. Free of ties." Gregory lowered his mouth to the Marquess's ear, breathing him the words. "Let me grace you with my intimate trust. I - believe that you and I could be close."

"God help me..." the Marquess breathed. He cried out as Gregory's hand ingratiated itself lower on his body, cupping the straining hardness at his breeches and beginning to knead. _"_ _Oh_ \- ... oh, dear God..."

"It grieves me that you're lonely..." Gregory dragged his teeth across the man's earlobe, closing his eyes, adoring the feel of the Marquess rocking into his firm and rhythmic rubbing. He hadn't craved another person's pleasure so much in many years. "A man of your wit... your grace... walls will keep you safe. They form your prison, too. Release yourself to me."

The Marquess shuddered, straining to catch his lips. Gregory gave them without reservation, kissing the man as deeply as he could. As he did, he untied the strings of the Marquess's breeches - loosening them gently.

They came undone. The Marquess quivered, faltering in the kiss. As his eyes opened, his pupils were huge and dark.

Gregory gazed into them, feeling his heart ache.

"You are eternally safe in my hands," he breathed - and reached beneath the loosened fabric.

As he gathered the Marquess's prick into his grasp, the Marquess swore and scrabbled to grip his hands. His expression twisted as Gregory began to stroke him - shaking, panting, biting into his lower lip. He held onto Gregory's wrist, feeling each slow motion. His eyes grew more molten with his every ragged breath.

Wild, he searched Gregory's gaze.

"That - f-feels - ..." The Marquess shivered, swallowing. "Please do not stop. For God's sake."

Gregory nuzzled at the man's lips - a soft kiss amongst the heat, gentling him even as he hardened.

"There is more," he whispered. The Marquess's breath hitched. "Tell me what you like. What pleases you."

Colour rose in the Marquess's face. He stuttered, stirring fretfully against his priceless tapestry.

"I - I like - ..."

Gregory stroked his mouth with another feather-soft kiss.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice gentle. "Tell me how I can serve you."

The Marquess's eyes flickered shut. He lifted his mouth to Gregory's ear.

"Come within me," he whispered. "Within my body. Share it."

Gregory felt his every nerve ignite. He shivered, unable to suppress it, and sped the stroking of his hand. The Marquess whimpered, biting into his lip - his grip tightened on Gregory's wrist.

"Please - ..." His voice broke. "Oh, God.  _P_ _lease."_

The last of Gregory's control fled the field. As he soothed his tongue into the Marquess's mouth once again, he worked to relieve the man of his robes. The Marquess struggled to help, gasping for air as they hauled the garments off and slung them without a thought to the floor. The tunic was easier - a flurry of black silk over the Marquess's head, cast away into the darkness.

Bare-chested against his tapestry - suddenly looking a decade younger - the Marquess shivered under Gregory's gaze.

"W-What?" he whispered.

Gregory's heart crackled with the fire.

The man was beautiful.

He had no idea.

The sudden vulnerability was the missing piece that made the picture whole and wondrous - the perfect paleness of his chest; the tousle of his hair, dishevelled out of order; the fearful flicker of his eyes. _How long has it been?_ Gregory wondered. How many nervous stable-hands had been delivered to this chamber in the dead of the night? How many cups of wine did it usually take his lordship to issue the summons?

These walls would keep an army out for years. They'd kept everything else out, too.

Until now.

Gregory took the hem of his own tunic in one hand. He pulled it over his head, and let it fall to the floor.

The Marquess's eyes shuttered at the sight of him. They roamed across Gregory's shoulders and chest with desperation - the scattered scars of a life on the battlefield, the deep tan of his skin, the developed muscle that it took to wield a sword.

The Marquess's breath caught.

"You're - so handsome," he managed. "You're so pleasing."

Gregory gave a small smile. "Then let me please you," he murmured.

He knelt at the Marquess's feet. He took the fabric he'd loosened with his hands between his teeth, and coaxed it down, freeing the Marquess's prick to the firelight.

As shaking hands found Gregory's shoulders, he nuzzled into the red-hued thatch of hair. His senses washed with the male, intimate scent. The Marquess's hardness brushed his cheek, and he laid a kiss upon the velvet-soft expanse of skin above his hair - enjoying the hopeful quiver that it caused.

Slowly, taking his time, he gathered the man's prick into his mouth.

The Marquess's sounds filled Gregory's soul with firelight.

As he worked, he listened to the gasps, fitful sighs and moans he was being given, aching with satisfaction at each one and moving slowly to discover what the Marquess liked. Rhythm - teasing - flicks of tongue. Hands at his hips, easing him to rock. The Marquess's grip became iron in only minutes. This act was intimate, and Gregory enjoyed it - enjoyed the feeling of a lover hardening to the point of endurance in his mouth. The Marquess's affected pleas were beautiful. His fingers stroked Gregory's hair, feeble, weak with enjoyment.

Gregory stayed on his knees until the sounds underwent a definite increase in pitch, and the Marquess's thighs began to shake. He then eased back with a slow and final lick, his heart pounding. He rested his cheek against the Marquess's stomach; he closed his eyes with a smile.

Fretful hands petted his hair.

He unbuckled the Marquess's boots - one and then the other, slid them from his feet. He eased away the breeches too, leaving the man naked in his entirety and trembling against the tapestry, his prick hard and shining wetly in the firelight.

_Come within me. Within my body. Share it._

Gregory rose from his knees, trailing his mouth over the Marquess's skin as he went.

The Marquess clung to him as they kissed. He pushed Gregory backwards onto the bed in desperation, panting, and dragged his breeches down. Gregory's stomach tightened. He gripped two fistfuls of the covers, biting his lip as the Marquess laid him naked to the air.

His boots took a little longer to deal with. Gregory's head fell back, gazing at the embroidered canopy, listening to each buckle snap open. The Marquess's enthusiasm burned in his blood. At last he hauled both boots off, dropped them away from the bed, and climbed on top of Gregory at once.

They kissed, breathing hard.

The Marquess cradled Gregory's jaw as if he were cherished. Their bare bodies pushed against each other, skin on skin, and Gregory felt his pulse begin to thunder as a tentative hand stole its way down his chest.

He groaned at the first contact - the first careful wrap of fingers. The Marquess shivered into his mouth and kissed him harder, gripping his cock. He began to pull Gregory rhythmically, over and over. Gregory stiffened, pleasure scorching beneath his skin.

"W-Wait..." He grabbed for the nobleman's hand, fearful. "Slow - "

The Marquess gentled the pace - swallowing, closing his eyes.

"Lest this end too swiftly," Gregory breathed, thick-throated. He received a soft laugh in reply. The Marquess caught his mouth for another fervent kiss, drinking from Gregory's lips as if nothing in the world would ever taste so sweet again.

"May this night never end," he whispered. His eyes trailed Gregory's face. "May the sun never rise."

Gregory gazed back at him in wonder.

How could one face be so capable of such breadth of feeling, he thought? - yearning, contempt - loneliness and adoration. He'd seen every one of them now.

He wanted to know what those grey eyes looked like in rapture - what the man looked like as a lover possessed his body.

"Rest against your pillows," he murmured. The Marquess's pupils swelled. "Lie back."

He anxiously complied. He shivered as Gregory pulled the cushions into place behind him, propping them against the headboard to support his back.

Gregory kissed his forehead. "We will need..."

The Marquess flushed, deeply.

"O-On the dresser," he said. "By the window."

Gregory left the bed, moving through the darkness to the dresser - a comb, a sewing kit, a scattering of jewellery and other trinkets. A distinctive scent told him what he was looking for. Beside the hand mirror, he found a small bowl. It contained a gleaming, amber-hued liquid: oil of calendula.

It explained the Marquess's softness of skin.

Gregory returned with the bowl to the bed.

Grey eyes watched him approach, hopeful and afraid.

"Why do you fear?" Gregory asked, as he climbed back beneath the richly-embroidered hangings.

The Marquess swallowed, gazing at him with anxiety. "I - f-fear I have coerced you."

Gregory regarded him with mirth, coming nearer. "You couldn't even coerce me to take a seat, my lord. You're not coercing me now."

The Marquess bit his lip, eyes softening with relief.

"Please," he murmured. "M-Mycroft."

Gregory's heart thudded in the quiet. Even as he parted the Marquess's knees, eased himself between them and pressed a kiss to the man's forehead, the permission of the name seemed the most intimate liberty he'd been granted.

"Mycroft..." He guided the Marquess to lie back. "Are you comfortable?"

The Marquess shuddered; he drew up his knees. "Yes..."

He watched, wide-eyed, as Gregory dipped his fingers into the calendula oil - drew them out wet and gleaming.

"B-Be gentle," he whispered. "I - I haven't - ... for a time."

Gregory's heart seared.

"I shan't hurt you," he murmured. "Nothing would distress me more." He lowered his fingers between the Marquess's parted thighs - seeking him out, gently - rubbing a slow and exploratory circle that made the man's breath hitch.

"Oh...!"

"Mhm?" Gregory kissed his temple, watching his face. As the first finger coaxed its way inside, Mycroft's expression tightened and then eased.

He reached a trembling hand for the bowl of oil.

Gregory gave it to him.

As warm, slick hands encircled his prick, Gregory shuddered and pushed into them. His head dropped forwards to rest on Mycroft's shoulder. The Marquess shivered, pressed a kiss into his hair, and began to stroke him - slow, measured pulls, hardening him with care. Gregory bit down on a groan. He felt his stomach tighten as he gently introduced a second finger to the other man's body - working oil inside him.

As the Marquess relaxed, over the course of long minutes, more and more pleasure flickered through his face. His fragile moans were intoxicating - his gasps, the blush of his cheeks.

Finally, with three fingers, Gregory began to thrust them in the rhythm of gentle connection.

The Marquess let out a cry. He arched, grabbing for Gregory's shoulders. His hands dug into them, his face scrunched and he broke into sobs, panting as Gregory's fingers drove themselves deeper.

"Please..." His teeth sunk into his lip and he writhed. He flushed, calling out. "Oh... oh,  _God - take me...!"_

Gregory's control shattered.

He couldn't wait a moment longer. He withdrew his fingers and pushed closer, shaking.

The Marquess continued to pant as Gregory's cock nuzzled into place. He squirmed, gasping, and gazed downwards at their point of connection. 

Gregory eased inside him slowly.

At the stretching ingress, Mycroft stuttered into silence - tight hard breaths, inch by aching inch. His chest heaved. He gripped onto Gregory's shoulders, hard.

The very darkness seemed to pound around them.

Gregory gazed into his face as they came together. The Marquess's body was molten in its heat, wet with oil and squeezing around him - the sensation was incendiary. It was sublime. Closer,  _deeper,_ andMycroft's body tightened. He let out a whimper; something broke in his expression.

"Kiss me," he begged.

Gregory's heart erupted.

Their lips sealed; he felt Mycroft draw breath deep into his body. They kissed as the quiet settled around them, and the shock began to loosen its hold. Every inch of Gregory's skin thrummed with sensation. He was aflame with it - they were _together,_  inside of each other, and the Marquess was quivering beneath him like a bowstring, trembling as they kissed.

Gregory soothed the man's mouth with his tongue, feeling Mycroft start to unwind.

"S-Slowly..." came the whisper at last, breathed between kisses. The Marquess's fingers curled through the hair at the nape of Gregory's neck. Flushed patches of pink stood out upon his collarbones and chest. "You're - you're b-bigger than - ..."

Gregory groaned against his neck, overwhelmed. "Am I hurting you?"

"No... n-no. Not at all."

"Swear it."

"I swear." The Marquess stirred. He bit his lip, and begged one final, "Please..."

As Gregory began to move inside him, his face opened.

"Oh..." He shook. He let out a moan, stretching, gasping. _"Oh...!"_

Gregory forced himself to concentrate - not to sink into the sight of the Marquess's expression, the fragile sounds he was making, the look of helpless need. He'd never been so close to losing control so quickly before. He could barely breathe.

It was the Marquess.

It was the way he looked against the pillows. It was the vulnerability in his face, in the way he swallowed, the way he tried to stifle his frantic moans. It took light in Gregory's soul. The man who held power over this castle, over the Crown, over the _country..._  was now beneath him - whimpering as Gregory gently fucked him.

One of Mycroft's hands came to rest on his lower back - trembling - feeling the slow, pushing rhythm.

"Finish in me," he breathed in Gregory's ear. His arms tightened, elegant fingers burying themselves in Gregory's hair. "Promise me. R-Release in me. Let me watch you."

Gregory could only be glad their exchange had been annulled.

He wouldn't have lasted the night in the Marquess's bed. Not a fraction of it. A sorry partial payment of what had been agreed.

"That m-may not be long," he warned, his breath cracking.

The Marquess heaved a sigh, arching up against him. His thighs encircled Gregory's waist.

 _"Good..."_ he moaned, and pulled Gregory's mouth to his own.

 

* * *

 

Not long after midnight, the Marquess's steward was summoned to his dayroom.

He spoke to her briefly among the bookshelves - asking her, in throaty tones, to prepare horses, provisions and arms for a group of twenty who were leaving at dawn. He asked her to arrange for Yuri and a full complement of guards to accompany them north - and he asked that she send the most discreet of the servants to his chamber, now, to draw a bath.

The servants reported back an hour later.

The Marquess, more at ease than any of them had ever seen, had spent the time conversing softly with the rebel commander in his bed. He'd stroked the man's cheek - caught his fingers at one point, gently kissed them - and though Gregory Lestrade spoke too quietly for them to catch his words, he spoke them with affection.

At one point they were laughing together, whispering within the shadows of the bed hangings.

The Marquess's wine pitcher remained nearly full.

Sophie smiled to herself as the servants delivered this information. She thanked them for their discretion, gave each one an extra night's wages to ensure it, and returned to her provisions report.

 


	5. Endeavours

****Dawn. During the night, a fog had come rolling in across the valley. It cloaked the castle in its protective grey folds, suffusing everything with the pink light of the new sun. The horses were shifting and snorting in the courtyard, pacing under heavily-loaded saddles. They were eager to set out.

Sir Gregory's retinue - well-slept, and well-fed - were in the same state of mind.

He watched them laughing and joking with Yuri's men as they all made ready to leave. They'd thought their lives were forfeit. Now they were beginning their journey home.

It was a sight Gregory never thought he'd see.

He'd never expected to find himself sad to see it.

When he'd emerged into the courtyard at first light, he'd known at once which horse was his.

The sable black stallion at the head of the retinue was a beast of remarkable beauty. The saddle it wore was embroidered with the Marquess's coat-of-arms - that now familiar yew tree wreathed in thorns. The sight of it made Gregory's heart thud as he idled down the steps, thumbs hooked loose in his belt.

Donovan was attending to her saddle as he approached.

"Good morning," she said, surprised - treating him to a flicker of one eyebrow.

"Good morning," he said. "Miracles, mm? It's true what they say. They never cease."

"You look well," she noted.

"Do I? Our host was kind enough to increase my clothing allowance..." Gregory ran his hands down the leather armour with which he'd been fitted before dawn, admiring the cut of it. The Marquess had admired it, too. "... lest I freeze on the ride to the stronghold," he said. "Feels good to be in armour again. I won't even show you the sword he's given me."

"You'd better not," she said, startled.

Gregory shot her a look of warning - though couldn't fight a smile.

"Rumour," he told her. "Gossip. Hearsay. Nothing more."

"Obviously," Donovan said, regarding him with interest. Her eyes flashed past his shoulder towards the great hall. "I think some more rumours are about to start..."

Gregory turned around.

The Marquess was descending the steps. Red silk, and grey brocade.

Gregory's heart groaned as he breathed in the sight. He felt his soul call out across the courtyard - clear as a hawk's cry in the morning air. A single night, and the world had changed.

Behind the Marquess came Sophie, consulting her book, and his lordship's bodyguard - dressed for the road. Even out of his plate armour, Yuri was the size of an oak door. Nothing would be troubling them on the way to the stronghold.

As the Marquess crossed the courtyard, Gregory waited by his horse - doing his very best not to smile. He attempted instead what he hoped was a look of appreciative neutrality.

It came out as a rather yearning gaze.

Lady Donovan busied herself with the straps of her saddle.

Lord Mycroft came to a halt on the cobbles before him. They faced each other across a respectable distance: the Marquess and the rebel commander - leaders, men of honour.

"Do you have everything you'll need?" the Marquess asked.

Gregory looked into his eyes. They were brighter than he'd ever seen them, full of things that only the two of them knew. Last night - all that they'd shared - swirled between them as tangible and real as the mist.

It made his entire body tingle.

"Everything we need and more," Gregory said. "You've been too kind to us, my lord."

The Marquess returned his quiet smile.

"I look after my own," he remarked. "I'd like to think that you and your people now count yourselves in that category."

Gregory marvelled for a moment, overcome. He'd seen the man beg. He'd seen him arch and cry out in his completion. He'd seen him panting softly in his afterglow. To see him now - composed, upright and powerful - it made Gregory's stomach knot with some fascinating emotion he didn't yet understand. He would understand, in time.

He smiled, aware of the discreet glances coming their way from all directions.

"Very gladly," he said. "We'll ride beneath your sigil with honour."

"Good." The Marquess suppressed a smile, glancing across the courtyard as the vast iron portcullis was raised. The hills, and the road ahead, slowly opened before them. "I imagine you'll be at the head of the rebel army," the Marquess said, "when I see you next."

"If providence is kind." Gregory hesitated, wondering how much he dared to say. "I hope it shan't be long."

"I hope the same," the Marquess said.

They watched each other for a moment, trading without words a number of other sentiments. Gregory found his fingers curling into his palms. It helped him resist the urge to step forward, seize hold of the man and kiss that beautiful mouth one last time. In the Marquess's chambers, just before first light, they'd said their proper goodbyes - slow, aching, gasping goodbyes.

It was hard to say another farewell, watched by so many eyes.

The Marquess inclined his head to his steward. "Have you...?" he murmured.

"Yes, my lord..." She handed him a scroll, sealed with blood-red wax, and a small velvet pouch.

The Marquess took them from her, and stepped nearer. He transferred both into Gregory's leather-gloved hands - his grip lingered a moment longer than was needed.

"My assurances for your leaders," he said, tapping the scroll. "And... for you." He touched the velvet pouch. "A token of our exchange. Perhaps," he added, with an expression of quiet disinterest, "you might write to me from time to time, and update me on your progress."

It felt like a moth had somehow found its way into Gregory's ribcage. "I shall," he promised. "Often."

"It will also help to relieve my boredom," the Marquess added, a little bleakly, with the slightest lift of his eyebrow.

"Then I'll consider it my duty." Gregory relished the slight smile it prompted. "You should come to see the stronghold," he murmured. "You could look over our plans… give us the benefit of your sharp mind."

The Marquess's lips curved with amusement, his eyes flashing.

"With great regret," he said, "I'm needed here… the marquessate requires my attention. Perhaps in a few weeks."

"Will you at least think about it?"

"At great length," the Marquess said. "I assure you."

Gregory hid his grin. "My lord... I..."

"As I believe I requested," the Marquess murmured, taking a step nearer, "it is _'Mycroft'_..." He began to examine an apparent fault in the leather-work on Gregory's saddle, frowning at the minute distortion that no-one else could see. "I'd like to think we are now friends."

Gregory's stomach twisted. "Good friends, I hope."

"Indeed?" Mycroft said, as he inspected the leather-work. "How gratifying to hear. Then I look forward to your letters very much, Sir Gregory. Some might say with the whole of my heart."

Gregory lowered his voice, feeling his heart heave. "Last night - "

" - was the most exquisite evening of my recollection." The Marquess lifted his eyes from the saddle, meeting Gregory's gaze with intensity. "Recollect it, I shall. Often. Desperately."

Gregory swallowed. "Mycroft..."

"I expect you to return to my holdings soon." Mycroft paused, his eyes lingering on Gregory's mouth. "And I expect you to remember me, when you are king."

Gregory felt something jolt inside his chest. It made him skip a breath. He frowned, wondering what Mycroft meant - why those words sank so deeply, so quickly, beneath his skin.

"I'm not going to be king," he said, unsettled - he searched the Marquess's eyes.

Mycroft gazed back. He gave Gregory the smallest of smiles.

"Remember me," he said, "nonetheless."

He stepped back from the saddle, his examination of its stitching apparently concluded.

"I'm keeping you from your journey, Sir Gregory... the road awaits. Your masters will wish to know that you're safe."

"My lord," Gregory said. He could feel his chest tightening. He did not want to say goodbye. Yuri and his guards were mounting their horses; Gregory's men began to follow suit. "Thank you - for all that you've - ..."

The Marquess's voice cut clear across the stamping of horses and the jostling of armour.

"Yuri!" he barked. "To the gates of the stronghold. Not a single yard less."

"Yes, my lord." Yuri drew his horse to the head of the company, alongside Gregory's own. He reached down with one arm. "Sir - allow me."

Heart pounding, knowing he had no more reason to delay, Gregory took the offered arm. Yuri helped to heave him up. Gregory slung himself across the horse, took hold of the reins, and glanced back across the courtyard with a hardening stomach.

The Marquess had withdrawn from the path of the horses. He was waiting, watching, on the steps of the great hall. His robes stirred in the breeze. 

His eyes never left Gregory as the horses began to move.

Gregory felt his heart contract. He wanted to shout - to lift an arm - to do something, _anything_ , to reach out for the man. How could they have shared that night - that perfect, endless night - only to say goodbye now? Nothing in the world had ever seemed so unjust.

"Commander..." Lady Donovan said, tentatively, at his side. "We should go."

It took all of Gregory's strength to pull his eyes away.

He turned, gripped the reins, and felt a fragment of his soul crack loose - it fell to the ground. Here it would stay, he thought. Here on the cobbles, safe behind these walls. He would return for it some day.

They rode out through the main gate. Like a flock of dark birds, they thundered down into the valley.

 

* * *

 

Before dark, they'd passed from the Marquess's holdings. Camp was made for the night. Gregory sat beside Yuri at the fire's edge, shared a quiet ale with the man, traded war stories from days gone by, and tried not to remember where he'd been in these precious hours just one night before.

He could not put Mycroft from his mind.

It seemed... wrong, that they were apart. He only hoped providence was not done with them yet. He couldn't bear the thought that he'd seen the last of the Marquess. He hated the idea of him alone, even now - the castle walls, the wine pitcher, the empty bed.

As the fire grew low, and the men settled down to sleep, Gregory recalled there was something he'd forgotten.

He drew it from inside his sleeve - the small velvet pouch which the Marquess had given him. Unnoticed by the others, he opened it by the light of the fire.

Inside, there was a signet ring.

It was marked with a crest - a yew tree, proudly wreathed in thorns.

It took pride of place on Gregory's hand, three days later, as he passed through the gates of the rebel stronghold.

It would take pride of place when he returned to the Marquess.

 

* * *

 

Greg was making coffee in the kitchen, three weeks later, when a fascinated voice said behind him:

"Gregory Andrew Holmes... what is _this_?"

Greg turned to find Mycroft in the kitchen doorway, shirt sleeves and reading glasses.

He was holding a familiar notebook.

"Oh - _Christ!_ " Greg cried. "Don't read that! It's - "

He dodged forward and made a grab for it; Mycroft lifted the notebook high out of reach. His eyes glittered with delight.

"Greg, have you been composing _pornographic literature_?" Mycroft asked him, astounded.

Greg blushed to his hairline.

"No!" he said. _"_ _No_ , it's - just an idea I had… look, give it here, will you? It's nothing."

Mycroft continued to hold the notebook aloft, leafing through the sheath of pages with a fascinated smile.

"Well, it reads an awful lot like pornographic literature..." he said. He studied a few sentences through his reading glasses. "... _'rebel commander Sir_ _Gregory Lestrade'_... and _'the Marquess'_ \- is this meant to be me?"

Greg covered his face and groaned, resisting the urge to sink to the kitchen floor in a heap. "Oh, God..."

"How long have you been writing this?" Mycroft asked.

"A while," Greg muttered.

"How long is 'a while', exactly?"

Greg's colour darkened. He knew better than to lie. Mycroft would have the truth out of him eventually - it was easier just to hand it over. "Since... Sophie and Yuri's wedding," he admitted.

"I _knew_ you were distracted that weekend," Mycroft said, smirking. "You were a thousand miles away... and a thousand _years_ away, it transpires..."

He handed the notebook at last to Greg, who pulled it protectively to his chest.

"I'd no idea you have a penchant for fiction," Mycroft said. "Five years, and still you're surprising me."

"It's not... _fiction_ ," Greg said, uneasily. "I was messing around. That's all."

Mycroft's smile softened a little. He watched as Greg placed the notebook carefully on the worktop, neatening the cover.

"It's rather good, you know," he said after a moment.

Greg shot him a look of scorn. "Alright... you can stop taking the piss now."

"I'm not," Mycroft said, wounded. "I just read twenty-six pages without a pause, Greg. It's… endearing. And fascinating." He hesitated. "Your understanding of what time period the Civil War occupied is rather off, I'll admit... but then, people hardly read this sort of thing to be educated..."

Greg said nothing, looking quietly down at his notebook.

"What are you going to call it?" Mycroft asked.

Greg bit the side of his tongue. "It's stupid."

"Tell me," his husband said, softly.

"I was thinking… _'A Man of Honour'."_

"Evocative." Mycroft came carefully close behind him. He eased his arms around Greg's waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. "Have you written any more?" he murmured.

Greg found his defenses softening a little. He liked when Mycroft held him from behind.

"Not yet," he said. "It seemed… silly, I suppose."

"You should," Mycroft said. He pressed his nose to the side of Greg's neck. "And when you do, I'd like to read it."

"You're kidding me."

"Not in the least. You've always had a romantic streak… it's rather touching to see it finding some creative expression." Mycroft smiled against his neck, proud. "I'll have you reading sections out to me in bed, if you're not careful..."

Greg couldn't help but grin. "Seriously, Myke... stop it. You're messing with me."

"Am I?"

"You think I'd be able to tell, after five years..."

Mycroft rumbled with amusement, hugging him gently. "Does he become king in the end?" he asked.

"I… I don't know," Greg admitted. "I... thought it would be cool." He hesitated, rubbing the cover of the notebook with a thumb. "And maybe if… if the castle's under siege at some point… he has to go rescue the Marquess. Fights through the lines to get to him. Kinda writes itself. Just ideas, though. Just for fun."

"You know, I have a spare laptop gathering dust in my office upstairs..."

"Myke, be serious."

"I _am_ serious. This is… fascinating to me Greg, truly. I'm rather eager to nurture it." Mycroft pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. "Write me cowboys some day, will you?"

Greg gave a sheepish grin. "I'm not going to hear the end of this, am I?"

"No," said Mycroft, fondly. "No, you're not."

He slid his hands down Greg's back, idling briefly over the arse of his jeans before easing away.

"Don't leave anything where the children will find it," he warned. "I don't want to explain historical erotica to your eleven-year-old niece. It was bad enough when she found the edible lubricant."

He picked up his coffee mug and headed for the door.

"Myke?" Greg called after him, as he stepped out of the kitchen.

Mycroft returned. He looked back over the top of his reading glasses. "Mm?"

Greg found himself smiling.

"I love you," he said.

His husband's mouth curved.

"I love you too, beast… and all of your endeavours. Past and present." His eyes gleamed. "I'll bring down that laptop for you."

 

**THE END**

 


	6. BONUS: Please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord, I've branched into bonus content. This can't end well. Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments. I'm thrilled you enjoyed _A Man of Honour_. As a token of my appreciation, here follows a short story from the same universe.  <3

Mycroft looked up from the latest sheaf of typed pages in amusement.

“I beg a lot in these stories of yours,” he remarked, eyeing Greg over the top of his reading glasses. “I don’t think you’ve written a single sex scene in which my historical incarnation doesn’t utter the word ‘please’ six or seven times.”

Greg looked back at him over the laptop, fighting not to smile.

“I’m just - trying to inject some realism, that’s all,” he said.

Mycroft’s eyes widened. “What precisely are you suggesting?”

Greg bit his lip. A grin was coming out; he could feel it. “Well… life-like details, you know. Make it all seem a bit more real. First rule of fiction, according to this ’ _Creative Writing For Dummies_ ’ book you got me… which I’m not taking offence at, by the way.”

Mycroft slowly revolved the red biro with which he’d been correcting Greg’s grammar, turning it between his long fingers. Greg could see the glint in his eyes, even across the lounge. “I don’t beg,” Mycroft remarked. “Not that much.”

Greg laughed out loud. “Pull the other one, Myke! It’s got bells on.”

“I shan’t be pulling anything, if you continue these slurs on my good name. I don’t…  _plead_  in bed anymore than other people do. And I’m unsure where you’ve picked up this impression.”

Greg said nothing.

They watched each for a moment over his laptop screen, smirking brown eyes on cool, challenging grey.

As he threw Mycroft up against the bedroom door, shutting it with a loud slam and locking it with a flick of his wrist, grinding their hips together hard, Greg saw Mycroft’s mouth begin to form a familiar, pursed shape. Mycroft noticed it, too. He stopped at once, biting down on the sound.

“That’s one,” Greg remarked, dipping his head to his husband’s neck.

“I didn’t actually say it,” Mycroft gasped, as Greg bit him gently and tugged the shirt hem out of his trousers. His shudder devolved into a ragged, heartfelt moan. “Greg… oh  _God_ , Greg… it’s not even two o'clock… I have the trade agreement this afternoon - …”

Greg twisted open the clasp of his trousers.

“ _Greg_ ,” he groaned. As a hand pushed inside his boxers, grasping his erection firmly and easing him free, Mycroft heaved in a breath. “Greg, pl-…  _oh_  - …”

“That’s two,” Greg remarked, kissed him, and then sank to his knees.

Mycroft’s fingers dug into his shoulder blades. “Twice is normal,” he insisted, shuddering as Greg mouthed gently along the shaft of his cock. “ _You_  say 'please’ at least twice. This - …  _ah_  - … proves nothing…”

“Twice so  _far_ ,” Greg murmured. “I’ve not even started with you yet.” Greg swallowed him down in a single stroke, raking his hands roughly up Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft’s head thumped back against the door.

By the time Greg got up from his knees, dragged Mycroft shaking from the door and knocked him backwards onto the bed, they’d added a few more to the total.

“That’s six,” he said, unbuttoning his jeans one-handed to relieve the pressure on his erection. He strode to the edge of the bed, nudged Mycroft’s thighs apart, and his husband let out something that sounded terribly like a snarl.

“That was  _five_ ,” he told Greg, eyes flashing.

“You were distracted,” Greg smirked. “I’m paying attention. Believe me.” He leant down, kissing restlessly at the flushed pink blotches already rising on Mycroft’s chest - burning softly beneath the scatter of his freckles. He started opening Mycroft’s few remaining shirt buttons. “God, we’ve not done this in ages…” he breathed. “Why don’t we fuck every afternoon? I love afternoon sex. I love watching you try to do serious things afterwards… did you say 'trade agreements’? Christ, I’m going to enjoy that…”

He spread Mycroft’s shirt open, lowering his mouth to the peaked nipples that were so sorely in need of his tongue.

“You being all stone-cold at some stuck-up business tycoon on Skype…” he husked, lashing his tongue across the left - listening with delight to Mycroft’s fitful groans, feeling the pale thighs tighten around him. “Sitting there in your home office, thoroughly fucked. Feeling me wet inside you. Pretending you didn’t just come howling for me, begging me.”

“Oh  _fuck_ , Greg - oh God,  _please_  - ”

Greg smirked against Mycroft’s nipple. “Seven,” he said, and drew it into his mouth.

“Oh my  _God,_ ” Mycroft seethed. He twisted beneath Greg, hissing, his neck arching in desperation for more. “This is  _normal_ ,” he gasped. “ _Utterly_  normal.  _Everyone_  says 'please’ in bed.”

“ _I’ve_  not said it once yet,” Greg noted against his chest.

“Well, you’re not  _fucking_  you, are you?”

“No… only one of us gets to be that lucky.” Greg grinned, reaching up for something on the bedside. “God, treacle… I just…  _need_  you. You’re so gorgeous.”

Mycroft shuddered deeply, the pink patches on his chest now ablaze. “Why is even ’ _treacle_ ’ working for me today?” he wondered aloud, breathless, as Greg started to kiss back down his body. “Oh, God… where are you going now?”

Greg, lubricant in hand, nuzzled against his stomach. “Just down here,” he murmured. “Don’t mind me.” He circled his tongue around Mycroft’s navel, intrigued by the tight little shiver it caused in his husband’s stomach muscles. He idled his tongue closer, flickering across the little indent - poised to dip in.

“Fuck,” Mycroft gasped. “Fuck, that’s - … ple-… oh, for the love of…”

“Nine,” Greg said. “Stop making this so easy.” He slid his tongue deep into Mycroft’s navel, swirling firm and slow, and was rewarded by a startled cry. He eased his hands beneath Mycroft’s thighs - lifting them, coaxing them to bend upwards and apart for him.

“Greg,” Mycroft said, his voice suddenly tightening. “ _Greg_  - ”

His hands gripped hard in Greg’s hair as Greg dipped his way down, bypassing Mycroft’s cock entirely - in favour of somewhere else.

Myke jerked at the first flash of tongue; he let out a shocked cry. Greg wrapped his hands firmly at Mycroft’s hips, pulling him closer and a little roughly down the bed as he laved his tongue slowly across that tight knot of muscle, determined he would hear the magic word again before he went any deeper. Mycroft seethed, made a slur against his parentage and tried a few ardent and urgent commands, which achieved nothing. Finally, whimpering at the all-too-gentle strokes of tongue, Mycroft gasped a tentative and heartfelt:

“Please…”

 _Ten_ , Greg thought.

He rewarded it. Mycroft’s hips writhed in desperation as his lover’s tongue persuaded its way inside him - gentle pushes and curls, coaxing the ring of muscle to soften. The tensing of Mycroft’s thighs either side of his head was perfection, Greg thought - the tremors he could feel running through them - the shaking flutter of fingers through his hair.

Before long, he’d stopped counting the pleas. He was only half aware of them in the back of his mind, flickering past him unnoticed as he concentrated on making this good - on looking after Mycroft properly. He snapped open the edible lube after a few minutes and was generous with it, catching a few more impassioned pleas as he eased the stuff slickly around Mycroft’s entrance and his balls, stroking it everywhere, making this messy. Mycroft liked lube. He liked slippery; he liked the glide of their skin, no catching, no dragging, just the movements they’d been mastering for years now. Greg coaxed his fingers in and out of Myke along with his tongue, alternating between the two each time the pleas got a little too desperate, their total number now long-lost - twenty with ease, Greg thought, perhaps even nearing thirty. As he began to bump rhythmically against Myke’s prostate, it ratcheted up another five or six.

Mycroft almost screamed the last one. He howled it, shaking apart as his husband’s fingers fucked him deeply, as his body clenched around Greg in desperation, as come spattered his own heaving chest and he blushed a deep, burning red.

He came down, gasping, without a scrap of dignity. His thighs shook; his forehead shone with sweat. Greg quietly thanked himself for the decision not to open the bedroom window that morning. Their neighbours worried about them enough.

“Please,” he heard Myke whimper. He looked up, dark-eyed and still hard as a rock, to find his husband gazing at him from the pillows. Mycroft stirred a little, biting his lip. He rocked his hips towards Greg. “You, too.”

Greg felt a hot shudder spread outwards from his cock - across his chest, into his shoulders, down his back. “Myke…”

Mycroft tightened his hands in the bedsheets with a quiver. “Fuck me,” he whispered. His come glistened wetly on his stomach. “I want you, Greg… please.”

Greg was still in his jeans and shirt. For half a second he was about to kick his way out of them - then realised he couldn’t wait that long. He crawled his way quickly up the bed, his heart pounding as he leant over Myke. The denim of his jeans rasped across Mycroft’s bare, sex-flushed skin, and his shirt trailed through the mess on his belly. Greg didn’t care. He freed his pulsing cock from his boxers one-handed, and guided it shaking to his lover’s entrance.

As Greg’s cock urgently ground its way inside him, Mycroft swore beneath his breath, bore down and fisted at the sheets. His eyes slid out of focus. Greg let out a bitten moan, and a shiver of contentment washed over Mycroft’s features. He swallowed deeply.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, gazing at Greg. “Just  _fuck_  me. Come in me. Please. Do as you want with me. I’m yours - I  _do_  beg. You’re right. Now please,  _please_  let me watch you come…”

His ankles crossed at Greg’s lower back, rumpling the dark denim still hitched around his hips. His expression tightened as Greg, shaking, began to thrust.

“Oh,  _fuck_ ,” Mycroft breathed. “Yes…”

It wasn’t even minutes - only seconds. Something about Myke’s moans of continuing pleasure drove him wild. Even after coming like that, even washed away and covered in sweat and come, Myke enjoyed having Greg inside him. He still bit his lip, shivered and stirred. He still dropped his head back into the pillows as Greg quickened, still panted a little and arched, still gripping tightly at bunched fistfuls of Greg’s shirt, and as Greg felt every muscle in his body start to tense, Mycroft breathed that beautiful word in his ear one last time.

“Darling…  _please_ …”

* * *

“How many in total?” Mycroft murmured, dazed, as hot water from the shower cascaded over them. It was almost three o'clock; Myke had a conference call with the Federal Minister for Economic Affairs in half an hour. In that time, he had to wash himself, dress, and try to look like he hadn’t just been ardently shagged.

Greg couldn’t wait to see it.

He cupped his husband’s perfect face, gazed into his eyes, and said,

“I lost count. M'sorry. Too busy being crazily in love with you.”

Mycroft’s smile was so gorgeous he wanted to write about it. “Shame,” Mycroft mused. “We’ll have to try the experiment again some time.”

“Or… we could just admit that I’m right…?” Greg grinned, leaning close for his lips.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Mycroft smirked, and wrapped Greg up in his arms.


End file.
